Adrift in the Acheron
by Nevermore
Summary: Sequel to 'The Dark at the End of the Tunnel.' Several people rush in to fill the power vacuum created by President Roslin's death, struggling against each other while trying to prepare for an inevitable cylon assault. All characters.
1. Survivors and Scavengers

Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**Author's Notes:** This story is a sequel to my earlier _Battlestar Galactica_ fic, _The Dark at the End of the Tunnel_. It is rather necessary to read that story before reading this.

This story is the second part in a trilogy. The trilogy was planned and started in the Sci-Fi Channel's break between Episodes 2.10 (_Pegasus_) and 2.11 (_Resurrection Ship, Part 1_). At that point, I had no problems deluding myself into believing that I could stay close to canon until I went my own way in the third story. Sadly, that didn't happen. I'm going to try to get closer to canon, though the process will take some time. Events that are integral to the positioning of characters within canon may still take place within this story, though in a different manner than that presented within the series. If that's unclear, please refer to the relevant page on my website, which I don't seem to be able to link to here because of pain-in-the-ass formatting issues on this site. If anyone can give me the proper html code so I can put the link in my profile, please PM me and I'll do that. Thanks.

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**Adrift in the Acheron  
** by  
**Nevermore**

**I – Survivors and Scavengers**

_So say we all._ The words kept dancing around in Admiral William Adama's mind, defying his every attempt to drive them from his head. He had heard the words countless times before, at innumerable celebrations and memorials. Births. Marriages. Funerals. _Another funeral,_ he reflected, surprised at how little of Laura Roslin's memorial service he actually remembered. The more he thought about it, the more he was forced to admit that he had spent most of the time taking a mental stroll down memory lane, recalling all of the highs and lows in their short relationship.

He glanced over to his bookcase and wondered which book President Roslin might have borrowed next if she had lived just a little bit longer. _Don't forget it was only going to be a little bit, no matter what happened at Chiron,_ he reminded himself. President Roslin had proven so strong, so willful, that it was almost as impossible to imagine her dying of cancer as it was to recall a time when she was not a dominant figure in his life, regardless of how short a time he and she had actually known each other.

Adama knew that people across the fleet were grieving for their lost leader. Some mourned because Roslin's passing meant that the religious icon named by Pythia had died, as had been foretold; others held the more pragmatic concern of worrying over what would happen to their own lives as a result of the change in the fleet's leadership; a shockingly small number – no more than a handful of people, actually – shed heartfelt tears at the loss of a woman who was no mere prophet or president, but a dear friend.

The admiral could not truly decide when it was that Laura Roslin had stopped being a busybody politician he would like to strangle and instead became a friend and confidant, and he found it really didn't matter. The admiral leaned back in his chair and began to address the questions he had spent most of his time putting off facing.

_What now?_ That was the biggest question, really, the one that gave rise to all of the others. Concerns about how Baltar would fare as president, what Zarek would do to gain power, and how an increasingly religious populace would react to Roslin's death, those were all specific forms of the same question. _What now?_

"One step at a time," Adama mumbled, hoping the sound of his own voice would help him concentrate. _As always, the first thing to address is security. All of the other problems immediately become irrelevant if we find ourselves subject to a cylon surprise attack and we're unable to defend ourselves._ He starting jotting down some notes on adjustments in duty rosters, but he stopped after only a few moments.

For the umpteenth time, he tried to chase away memories of his lost friend, wondering at his inability to concentrate on tasks he had been performing for years. _I haven't been this distracted since… No,_ he told himself, exerting his will against his subconscious desire to spend some time thinking about Zak.

"Focus," he growled at his empty, silent surroundings. "One step at a time." _It would be easier if something – anything – would go right. But everywhere I look it's one frakking disaster after another…_

A soft, hesitant knock at the door elicited a satisfied sigh from the admiral. _Finally, something tangible to focus on_. When he opened the door, he saw the last person he would have expected.

"Something wrong, Dee?" he asked, surprised at his own informality in addressing her by her nickname.

"No. I mean, so sir," she answered awkwardly. "I just wanted to, I mean, Billy and I…"

"I heard congratulations are in order," Adama interrupted.

"Thank you, sir."

"Why don't you come in?" Adama offered, desperate for a few moments respite from his own inner demons.

"Sir?"

"You're not due on the bridge, are you?"

"No sir."

"Then take a couple of minutes to humor your admiral's nosiness," Adama said with a smile, trying to banish the uncertainty and anxiety he saw on Dee's face. He had felt over the months that the crew was becoming more like family than shipmates, but it was clear that some lines of protocol and formality were not easily erased. _And they probably shouldn't be, either,_ Adama acknowledged, knowing that in many ways it would be irresponsible to let the crew realize he was just a man and not the all-knowing, all-powerful commander – _no, I'm an admiral now,_ he reminded himself – that many still saw him as being. _But just a few minutes isn't going to hurt anything,_ he assured himself.

"So you and Billy are getting married," Adama commented as Dee followed him into his quarters. He poured two cups of coffee and handed her one, not bothering to offer sugar or powdered cream; they'd spent enough time on the bridge together for him to know that she never added anything to her coffee. _Brave girl,_ he decided with a slight grin. _Fleet coffee all but screams out for heaps of sugar._ "Have you two set a date?" Adama asked.

Dee gave him an uncertain look, and he suddenly realized how strange his question actually was. _There're no churches to reserve, no reception halls to select, no invitations to send out, no more family or best friends to ask to be in a wedding party. Even our traditions have been destroyed by the cylons._ "On second thought, I guess it doesn't take as much planning as it used to," he admitted, suddenly looking at his coffee mug, not wanting to know what Dee's reaction to that reality might be.

"Well, there's a little planning," Dee admitted. "For instance, I have to find a priest," she said.

"Well, when you've done that, let me know," Adama said. "We'll find you a place on _Galactica_ for the ceremony."

"Thank you, sir, but I.… umm…"

"What is it, Dee?"

"There's an old tradition that doesn't really exist anymore," she said. "It's from centuries ago, before priests were assigned to every ship and it sometimes took months to travel from one planet to another."

"What is it?"

"In ancient times, it was traditional for a ship captain to marry people, since a priest might not always be available."

"I remember reading about that."

"And I was wondering if you'd be willing to marry Billy and me," Dee said quickly, clearly hoping to spit the words out before she said something awkward in front of her commanding officer.

"Dee…"

"It's still legal," she said. "Billy looked it up in the few records of Colonial law we have left. It's rare and generally unnecessary, since priests are almost always available, but you still have the authority to marry someone. Just like judges do."

"I'd be honored," Adama said, incapable of mustering anything else. "You give me a day and time, and I'll be there, Dee."

"Thank you," she said, absolutely glowing with relief and joy. "Thank you, sir."

"I suppose you have to go find Billy now," Adama said.

"Yes sir."

"Then get going," he told her. She practically raced out of his quarters, and he could hear her running down the hallway outside.

"One step at a time," Adama told himself, this time with a smile on his face. It occurred to him that Laura would have liked to see Dee and Billy get married, but he resolved to do his best to make the day as perfect for the two as Laura would have wanted.

The admiral turned back to his work, surprised at how much easier it all seemed now that something had finally gone well.

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"There are several issues that we feel need to be attended to immediately," Saffiya Sanne said.

"I'm willing to address all of your concerns," Baltar assured Picon's representative on the Quorum of Twelve.

"Well, to be blunt, many of us think that it would be appropriate for you to resign your office as the president," Sanne explained. "You were one of humanity's preeminent scientists even before the cylon attack; with the losses we've taken, I don't think there can be any doubt that you're the finest human mind alive."

"Thank you," Baltar said. _But…_ he added silently, expecting that to be the next word out of Sanne's mouth.

"But adding the duties of the office of the president is too great a burden, even for one as gifted as you," Sanne said, not surprising Baltar with the direction of the conversation. Several other representatives nodded their heads, though most – including Tom Zarek – remained as still as statues.

Baltar was surprised by Zarek's opening salvo; he had expected Marshall Bagot to be the first one to come right out and question his position. _But then again, Tom Zarek used Bagot as his front man last time he made a push for power. He doesn't seem the type to try the same tactic twice, especially when it failed the first time. Besides, from what Gray said, Bagot has grown fairly influential in his own right. He might even be Zarek's vice-president once the two of them get me out of the way._

"They won't get you out of the way, Gaius," Six chided on his left, leaning against the wall, cutting an impressive figure in a green silk dress with a gold dragon embroidered down the right side. "Just stick to our plan, and everything will be fine."

_Sure, just stick to the plan,_ Baltar thought, hoping no one in the room noticed how badly he was starting to sweat.

"While the position of president is demanding, there are others in the fleet who can competently negotiate the demands of the office," Sanne said. "However, there is no one else in the fleet who can possibly duplicate what you're able to do for us in the lab."

"Fascinating," Six commented. "I never knew how capable humans were of flattering while they stabbed each other in the back."

Baltar grinned at Six's remark, and he noticed that a couple of the representatives smiled back, all of them seeming to assume that he had been smiling at them. _Or smiling in the face of a concerted effort to start moving me out the door,_ he decided. _Six was right – the vast majority of this is how I look. As long as I appear confident and unconcerned by my enemies, I'll have the battle half-won._

"Well, I'd be lying if I said that resigning isn't something I've already considered," Baltar said, "but I can't see how that could be anything but disastrous at this juncture, no matter how pragmatic a decision it may be."

"How so, Mr. President?" Sanne asked. Baltar noted that Zarek's lips had spread ever so slightly into a thin smile. He seemed to know exactly what Baltar was going to say.

"President Roslin's death was inevitable, of course," Baltar explained. "From the moment she openly admitted that she had terminal cancer, the people of the fleet have been emotionally preparing themselves for the loss of a woman who guided us all through mankind's darkest hour. But then she was killed even sooner than we expected; it ended up being quite a shock, despite the fact that we'd all known what was coming."

"Good, Gaius," Six purred. "You have them right where you want them now."

Baltar was unsure what she meant – he was literally making up his little speech as he went – but he plunged ahead, nonetheless.

"The people need stability, they need to feel safe," Baltar continued. "A large part of that comes from some level of familiarity with leaders, and part comes from knowing that their leaders are equal to the challenges facing them. I refuse to cause panic or a loss of confidence in the government by running away as soon as my life gets difficult."

Sanne's smooth voice interrupted. "Mr. President, no one is suggesting--"

"Yes, you are," Baltar retorted coldly, not even needing to hear another word from the representative. "I'll be the first one to admit that my efforts might best be utilized in the lab, but President Roslin chose me to fill a position she, I, and all of you knew full well would result in me becoming president when she died, whether it was at the hands of cylons or the result of cancer. There has to be an orderly and controlled transition of power. That means we'll first name a new vice-president. Then we'll finally schedule some elections."

"Elections," Sanne said with a nod. "That _is_ long overdue."

"Given we're still completing a census that'll let us know who the eligible voters are, it would have been impossible to do it any sooner," Baltar retorted. "The vaccinations for the Trojan Flu are winding down; Doctor Cottle assures me that the medical crisis will be alleviated within days. Once we can be sure that inter-ship travel no longer poses a health risk, we'll resume our census. When that's done – and only when that's done – we'll commence a process for people to register as voters and, if they wish, as candidates."

"But Mr. President," Sanne began to object.

"Yes?" Baltar demanded, hearing in his own voice a sharp, commanding edge that had never been there before. To his amazement, Sanne was immediately cowed.

"Yes, Mr. President," Sanne said with a nod. Baltar suspected the member of the Quorum of Twelve had planned to point out that Baltar's plans would take months to complete.

"It's good to be the president," Six commented. Baltar could only smile in reply as Tom Zarek failed in his attempt to stare him down from the opposite end of the table.

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Dr. Noah Drake sighed when Sharon refused to answer his question, and Helo simply shrugged his shoulders when Drake looked to him for assistance. _The doc might have gotten me to go along with his question-and-answer sessions, but that doesn't mean I'm about to help him out._

"How about we turn back to cylon navigation capabilities?" Drake asked, leaving behind for the time being the questions about Sharon's child.

"Fine," Sharon snapped.

"We know cylon raiders are capable of much farther FTL jumps than anything the Colonies have," Drake began, seeming to choose his words with his characteristic precision. "Just how far can they go in a single jump?"

"That depends," Sharon answered. "As long as there are detailed maps of the starting point, the destination, and all points in between, our ships could theoretically cover the distance from here to Caprica in a single jump. In reality, the maps are never precise enough to take the chance, though; there are always previously unmapped comets and asteroids, a sun that's just gone nova, an unexpected solar storm putting out disrupting radiation, or something else that's out of the ordinary. So while a cylon ship could theoretically make it in one jump, in reality it would probably take between five and eight. But the simple answer, I guess, is that I'm not aware of the cylons having reached their maximum FTL jump range."

"So the only real limits are due to a lack of astrogation data."

"Yes."

"And that's why the cylons haven't been able to get ahead of us," Drake said. "They have to map out the space ahead of us, just as we do."

"Yes."

"So the cylons haven't been in this area of space before."

"That's correct."

"How did the cylons develop their technology?" Drake asked. He'd been on a roll with the last few questions, but his momentum came to a screeching halt as Sharon simply stared at him.

"I don't understand the question," she told him.

"Cylon FTL technology is superior to that of the Colonies," Drake explained. "The cylons have clearly refined the technology in some way."

"Refined?"

"Our captured raider shows that cylon technology is based on human technology, but in this case the cylon version is superior."

Drake scrutinized Sharon closely, and Helo was left to wonder whether Drake was looking for any indication that Sharon was lying. He knew that it was possible to detect lies in a person's body language, that special techniques were taught to military intelligence interrogators, but he had no idea whether Drake had learned any of those techniques. _Or if they'd even be of any use,_ he decided. _Couldn't a cylon be programmed to behave deceptively? Couldn't she make it look like she was lying when she was telling the truth, and vice versa?_ He shuddered when he realized that he had been thinking of Sharon as a machine and not as a woman. He hated when Drake's questions made him do that.

"Maybe we should take a quick break," Helo suggested.

"No," Drake said.

"I'm fine," Sharon assured Helo. She turned back to Drake and added, "I'm sure there was some type of modification made, but I have no idea what it was."

"Or where it came from?"

"What do you mean?"

"You may not know specifics about FTL development, but surely you know enough about cylon society to have an idea of how technological breakthroughs are brought about."

"I don't understand what you're getting at."

"When I was a child, I knew nothing about invention," Drake explained. "But I _did_ know that there was such a thing as engineers. I knew there were men whose lives were devoted to creating new things and making improvements to those things that already existed. What's the cylon equivalent? For that matter, is there a cylon equivalent? You can't expect me to believe that you have no knowledge of this."

"Cylon society isn't arranged like that," Sharon answered. "We're interconnected in a way that humans aren't, so one cylon is capable of a plethora of what you refer to as vocations. There is no single best use for any individual cylon model or personality, although some of the older ones seemed to be developing preferences. I was sent in with a specific purpose, but this body could have served just as well as a bodyguard, an assassin, a Viper pilot, a doctor, or pyramid player."

"So there was no specific reason you were sent here?"

"No."

"So any cylon of your particular model might have been sent to join up with Helo on Caprica? Any willing cylon wearing that familiar shell could have been briefed on your relationship with Helo and achieved your mission objective?"

"That's enough," Helo interjected. His own thoughts had drifted down this road several times, and he did not like where it led.

"Must I remind you, Lieutenant, that you're present merely as a courtesy? If you decide to interfere, or if you're incapable of controlling yourself during an uncomfortable line of questioning, you'll have to leave."

"I'm not leaving."

"I have my orders," Drake said. "I'm to get valuable tactical information from Ms. Valerii. She seems to appreciate having you in the room, and I am certainly not blind to how I can benefit by having you tacitly supporting my efforts rather than attempting to subvert me. But if this arrangement becomes problematic, I'll have you removed and I'll engage in alternative methods of interrogation. Am I making myself understood?"

Helo was surprised by the glare in Drake's eye. "Yes," Helo answered defiantly, leveling a glare of his own. "I understand."

"Excellent. However, you've succeeded in making me lose my train of thought. How about this, Ms. Valerii?" he prompted, paging through his notes. "I was speaking with Chief Tyrol, and he mentioned that you made some sort of comment about cylon raiders being like animals."

"Yes," Sharon replied, bringing a grimace to Helo's face. Every time Tyrol's name was mentioned, he inevitably remembered the time Sharon and Tyrol had spent together not long ago, even while he thought he'd been with Sharon on Caprica. He absolutely despised remembering that Sharon had existed within a separate body; such reminders made it impossible to forget that he was in love with a machine. _And not just a machine,_ he told himself. _This is a machine that replaced the one I was initially in love with. The cylons sent me a fake version of the fake human I loved, and I never knew the frakking difference._

He chased away his thoughts and tried to focus on the conversation, hoping against hope that Drake would stick to topics that did nothing to remind him of the farce he felt his life was becoming.

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"You know, this is the first chance we've really had to talk since we got back from Chiron," Starbuck commented over the wireless.

"Guess so," Ares agreed, holding his position on her wing as they proceeded through their umpteenth uneventful CAP. "Had a lot going on, though. I've spent the past week standing around at various memorial services, sweating my ass off in a dress uniform that's snug in the shoulders and too loose in the waist. I don't know who that thing used to belong to, but the guy was built like a pear."

"You have my condolences," Starbuck replied, trying not to chase away the guilt that always haunted her when she remembered the losses their team took at Chiron. _If only I'd come around a little faster,_ she thought again, just as she always did when she replayed the cylon attack in her mind. _I could have brought that last heavy raider into range and taken it out before the centurions boarded the station._ As always, she ignored the fact that doing so would have brought her right into the sights of three other raiders and likely gotten her killed before the attack was twenty seconds old.

"Condolences are nice, but I'd prefer some extra personal time," Ares shot back. "Captain Hard-Ass is your buddy; how 'bout you put in a good word or two for me?"

"No promises, though I definitely owe you," Starbuck said. "You did great out there."

"Be careful – that almost sounded like a compliment, Starbuck. Though I still didn't have as many kills as you did, though," Ares groused. "And I had three sets of guns to work with. Apollo kept telling me you're good, but damn…"

"You covered for me when I was on the wireless, coordinating with Tigh," Starbuck reminded him. "We might have lost Joker, too, if you hadn't stepped up like that."

"And here I was afraid that I'd get in trouble for overstepping my authority."

"Not this time."

"It's not like you were exactly trusting before the op," Ares reminded her. "I seem to remember you practically accusing me of deliberately inciting battles in the past."

"Let's not get all warm and fuzzy, Ares – you still have a little to prove to me."

"Yeah, I know. Trust is earned, not freely given away, and all that stuff…"

"But you earned the benefit of the doubt, at least," Starbuck admitted.

"Is that all I earned?"

"Were you hoping for something else?" Starbuck asked.

"Well, I help you out in a firefight, maybe even save one of your pilots, and all I get is the benefit of the doubt? Couldn't you at least take me to dinner, too? I eat light."

"Dinner?"

"That meal that comes after lunch and before sleep," Ares clarified sarcastically. "I don't think it's asking so much."

"And boy, wouldn't it be fun to start those kinds of rumors circulating."

"What rumors are those?" Ares asked in a tone that told Starbuck he knew full well what she meant, but he wanted to hear her say it.

_Jackass,_ Starbuck thought angrily. "You know what I mean," Starbuck said. "Male and female pilots have dinner, everyone's gonna assume that something's going on."

"No!" Ares gasped, doing his best to sound scandalized at the idea.

Starbuck could only laugh at his response.

"But you and Apollo have dinner all the time," Ares pointed out. A barely audible chuckle punctuated his point, and Starbuck thought better of pursuing that topic.

"About Apollo," Starbuck said, deciding this was an outstanding opportunity to ask some of the questions she'd had on her mind. "What was he like back at the Academy?"

"I don't know that he'd want me talking about that," Ares responded. "You know how he gets, wanting to be all prim and proper."

"So he wasn't prim and proper back then?"

"Not so much, no."

"So then what was he like?"

"He was… I don't know. He was more alive, I guess is the best way to put it," Ares finally said. "He was less responsible, more impulsive, more fun, and a real kick-ass pilot. More like you, in a way."

"You know, that's one of those things that sorta sounds like a compliment, but isn't really if you think about it," Starbuck said with a grin.

"Hey, you're the one who asked. Don't go shooting the messenger."

"So he was more like me, the poor boy."

"Never would have thought he'd end up like he did," Ares said. "In fact, I never thought he would have stayed with the service as long as he did, no matter what his actual status was at the time of the attack. I figured he would have gone all civvie on us years ago."

"Yeah, well, he won't admit it, but he loves flying Vipers," Starbuck pointed out. "It's a hard thing to give up."

"And now Apollo won't have to, though I guess being CAG means he'll stay a big stick in the mud. Too bad, too," Ares said. "If things hadn't gone wrong at the Academy, he probably would have ended up just like you."

"Now _that's_ hard to imagine."

"Well, without the breasts," Ares quickly added. "Does that help out the mental image?"

"Yeah, much better," Starbuck laughed.

"Maybe his crap responsibilities are why he likes you as much as he does," Ares said. "He's probably living vicariously through you. Besides, you've got to remind him of Athena."

"Athena?" Starbuck asked. She knew full well that Athena was a friend of Apollo's at flight school who had been killed in an accident. _And I don't think I'm even supposed to know that much,_ she reminded herself, making certain she didn't give anything away. "She an old girlfriend?"

"Of a sort," Ares replied evasively. "In a way, she and Apollo were total opposites – he was the mostly-well-mannered son of a Colonial flag officer, she was from a working class family and well on her way to being a rock star before she gave that up and enlisted."

"A rock star," Starbuck repeated skeptically. This definitely seemed like another Ares Tall Tale to her.

"Well, maybe not a star," he admitted. "But she had a recording contract and everything. In fact, Athena was her stage name; she was in a rock band called The Goddesses."

"Never heard of them."

"Not really important for the purposes of this story," Ares countered. "One of the other pilots in our class _had_ heard of her, and that's how Athena's stage name became her callsign. The joke was that since she hung around me and Lee all the time, that we must be gods, too."

"So you got callsigns to match."

"Yeah. The true story really isn't as interesting as some of the fairy-tale rumors I've heard over the years," Ares said. "In fact, one time a nugget in the class behind us said that he heard Athena, Apollo, and I all got named after gods because a Sibyl came to the flight school and claimed that we were the gods' avatars come down from on high, or somethin'."

"Sure, that'd be the day," Starbuck joked.

"I assume you're referring to Apollo and Athena," Ares quipped. "I mean, I've always thought myself rather godly."

"Of course you have, Ares," Starbuck laughed.

"Anyway, yeah… Athena was a musician. Not that she ever really talked about that; in fact, as close as we were, I didn't know that much about her past. Just like another pilot I can think of."

"And?" Starbuck said, making certain the conversation remained focused on Apollo and Athena rather than on her.

"And she and Apollo somehow ended up like two peas in a pod at flight school. She was the type that always wanted to fly faster, always closer to the edge, who didn't think it was a worthwhile dogfight until she was up against five-to-one odds, and who played fast and loose with the rules because she knew most rules existed for pilot safety, and she was good enough not to have to worry about that like the rest of us mere mortals. You know the type."

"I suppose," Starbuck said, not missing Ares' meaning.

"Anyway, a woman like that has a way of charming most men, especially a guy like Apollo. Poor sap was helpless against her charms."

"Hard to imagine Apollo ever swooning for a woman."

"You think so?" Ares asked. "For some reason I thought you'd be able to picture that quite easily."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Starbuck asked, a liberal mix of suspicion, anger, and embarrassment in her voice.

"Only that you know him better than most, of course," Ares answered, again with a barely audible chuckle. "What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing," Starbuck said, chasing away embarrassing memories involving a dark hall, far too much ambrosia, and a loose tongue that had revealed far more than she'd wanted to.

_To be continued………………………………_


	2. Moments of Transition

Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**II – Moments of Transition**

"I'm very sorry we haven't gotten to do this sooner," Baltar apologized.

Apollo was impressed by the apparent sincerity in the president's voice. _He's really starting to settle into the skin of a politician. A couple more weeks, and he'll be a world-class liar like the rest of them._

"There hasn't been too much that's been pressing," Admiral Adama replied. "Though I'd appreciate it if you'd do everything you can to make time for military briefings, Mr. President, especially until we get an idea of how you'd like to do things."

"Of course," Baltar said, smiling slightly at some unspoken joke. "So… what's first?"

"There are several reports for you to look over," the admiral said, pushing forward a stack of bound papers. "Those include everything you need to know – fuel consumption and refinery capacity, weapon and ammunition production, current military enlistment goals, a roster of our current officers, flight specs on the Vipers, the list goes on and on."

"I see."

"I'll help you go over it," Apollo promised. "President Roslin didn't have any military experience, either, and she picked it up pretty quickly." He doubted, however, that he would ever enjoy his time with the current president as much as he had his time with Baltar's predecessor.

"At the bottom of the pile, you'll find the latest updates to the basic information in the reports," Tigh added.

"Great," Baltar said with a smile, dropping his hands on the stack. "And is there anything else? I know President Roslin always spent quite a bit of time in these briefings."

Apollo hid a smirk, unable to resist dwelling upon the thought that the reason the military briefings had always taken so long was that the president and the admiral had always been looking for excuses to spend time together; the military briefings were really the only normally scheduled meetings that provided that opportunity. "Well, there aren't really any major situations," Apollo said. "With inter-ship travel only just now getting started up again, there are sure to be small problems, but those are routinely handled. Unless you'd like to consider changing our routines," he added, drawing a disapproving stare from his father.

"No, I don't see any point in messing with procedures that have kept us safe this far," Baltar replied.

"Then as long as we don't get attacked, we won't have to spend time going over damage and casualty reports," Tigh added. "That's what usually takes longest."

"I know that not every encounter with cylon raiders gets reported to the press," Balter commented. "In fact, President Roslin all but told me there were attacks that not even I heard about, even though I was the vice president."

"I wouldn't know what she did or didn't feel was necessary to share with you," Adama grumbled.

Apollo thought something in his father's vaguely reproachful tone sounded very similar to the way he had whenever he'd found him and Zak fighting. _"I don't care if he hit you first, Apollo. I don't want to hear excuses; you're old enough to know better than hit back."_

"That's not my point," Baltar said with a casual wave. "What I mean is this – I'm aware that there are probably many things I don't know about the fleet's defenses. I think I deserve a frank evaluation, summed up in a few words, without having to take the next several days piecing together clues from several misleading and incomplete reports, hoping against hope that the mosaic I construct is something akin to reality."

Apollo couldn't help but smile at Baltar's candor; it was not a trait he usually saw in politicians. While his father's face was unreadable, Lee knew his father well enough to realize that the almost undetectable glimmer deep within his eyes was a sign that Baltar finally said something that met with the admiral's approval.

"Fine, a frank evaluation," Adama responded. There are dozens of civilian ships, many of them years past their primes and with grueling maintenance schedules, and none of them armed. Protecting them we have the _Galactica_ and the _Myrmidon_. The _Myrmidon_ is just a solidly-constructed hydrogen harvester re-fit to fill a military role – it's lightly armed and almost completely unarmored; it's capable of transporting a detachment of up to six Vipers, but it's not capable of permanently supporting them, not that we have either the Vipers or the pilots to indulge that fantasy; its crew is still being trained and its commanding officer would've been considered at least five or six years shy of the inexperience needed for the position if the Colonies hadn't been destroyed; and last, but certainly not least, its FTL drive has been acting up lately, so I'm increasingly concerned that we may eventually have to abandon it and salvage it for scrap. As for the _Galactica_, it's a battlestar. It's fully armed and heavily armored, it has a trained crew, though we're about 400 people short of what would be considered a full crew complement. We have Vipers and trained, experienced pilots, though neither in adequate supply. So the _Galactica_ is about as well off as we could hope to expect, all things considered, but we can't forget the ship is decades-old and its maintenance schedule hasn't been kept up since it was scheduled to be decommissioned and turned into a museum. Ideally, the _Galactica_ would never be expected to escort more than a half-dozen unarmed civilian transports like the ones we have with us, especially with the scant number of Vipers at our disposal."

"So the best word to describe our predicament might be dire," Baltar responded.

"Yes."

"And your people have kept us all safe so far."

"We've been lucky here and there," Adama admitted. "It helps."

Apollo thought he caught Baltar glance out of the corner of his eye and nod almost imperceptibly, almost as if he was listening to someone else in the room. It sent a shiver through him, though he could not explain why.

"What would make things easier?" Baltar asked.

"Excuse me?" Adama asked.

"I'm the president now," Baltar replied. "I have it in my power to assist you, and I happen to know that doing so is in my best interests."

"I don't know what kind of person you think I am, or how much trouble the Quorum of Twelve is giving you, but if you think that bribing me--"

"No, of course not," Baltar interrupted. "I'm afraid you misunderstand me, Admiral. You and your soldiers are responsible for the safety of the fleet. For _my_ safety, truth be told. And yes, I've already had my problems with the Quorum and with day-to-day business, but I think it's important to acknowledge that the safety and security of the fleet is vital. After all, all of our other problems immediately become irrelevant if we find ourselves subject to a cylon surprise attack and we can't defend ourselves."

"What are you suggesting?" the admiral asked.

"I'm not suggesting anything," Baltar said. "You're the soldier, not me; tell me what you need."

"More ships," Tigh immediately said. "More men, more weapons, more fuel, a few spacedocks for repairs, a few weeks' liberty to let our people unwind, the list goes on and on."

"I see that." Baltar steepled his fingers in front of him and smiled broadly. "What do you want, Admiral?"

"The _Aether_," he answered without a moment's hesitation.

"A ship?"

"No," Apollo interjected. "We're not taking another civilian ship."

"We need one, Captain." The admiral's eyes were ice, his face a stone mask. Apollo knew he was going to get chewed out for this, but he saw no other choice.

"President Roslin would never have agreed to this," Apollo said.

"She gave us the _Myrmidon_," Tigh pointed out.

"Reluctantly," Apollo countered. "She always wanted to keep a firm line between the military and civilian personnel and ships. Since she's died, we've recruited over four hundred new troops, and now we're going to convert another ship."

"Just one ship," Tigh said.

_That's how it starts,_ Apollo remembered President Roslin saying. _She was right – it didn't end with the _Myrmidon_; it won't end with the _Aether.

"The _Aether_ is small," the admiral told the president. "It has a crew of only about forty. But it's one of the newest ships in the fleet – it's a deep space surveyor. It's fast, relatively maneuverable, and has the virtue of being designed to go years without major maintenance."

"She's yours," Baltar said. "I'll have my staff prepare any necessary paperwork."

"Thank you, Mr. President," Adama replied.

"If that's all," Baltar prompted, standing and grabbing his stack of reports as he walked out, seeming eager to get away from the three command officers.

"Well I'll be damned," Tigh muttered as soon as the door had closed. "I never thought we'd find a friend in him."

"Don't be so sure we have," Adama cautioned his XO. "He's still a civilian, and the president, to boot, so I'm sure there'll be a price for this favor somewhere down the line."

"I really don't think we should do this," Apollo said, drawing an icy stare from Tigh and a tired shrug from his father.

"Give us a moment, would you, Colonel," Adama said.

"I'll be in C.I.C.," Tigh said, quickly showing himself the door.

"I know you've got a strong civilian streak, Lee," the admiral said once they were alone, "but you have to start facing facts. We all do. As much as we may not like to admit it, even with the billions that have already died in this war, we're going to lose more people. Just like we lost President Roslin. I'm not here to coddle the people; I'm here to protect them. I need more ships to do that, and you damn well know it."

"But we can't lose sight of the big picture," Apollo countered. "If we lose sight of what we are, of our heritage, then--"

"The Colonies are dead, Lee," Adama interrupted. "President Roslin was the last link to the old elected government, and she's gone; the Colonies have been sacked, the human race all but wiped out. What Baltar said is something that I've often thought, myself – all of our other problems immediately become irrelevant if we find ourselves subject to a cylon surprise attack. We can debate, and philosophize, and bargain, and lie to our heart's content once we're safe. But until that day, we have to make sure we do everything we can to make sure our children, and our children's children, have that opportunity."

"But--"

"That's all," Adama said, cutting him off.

Apollo rose rigidly, snapped a quick salute that conveyed more defiance than respect, and walked out of the briefing room, leaving his father alone to ponder the inevitable consequences of what he'd done.

-------------------------------------------------

"You look just like I feel," Starbuck said to Helo as she walked into the weight room. It was the middle of the night, and the two of them were alone; she found that suited her just fine.

"And if you look like you feel, then I guess I must look like hell," Helo said with a grin. Starbuck took a few seconds to work out in her head what he'd said, and then she smiled back.

"So how's it going with you?" Starbuck asked, throwing some plates on the military press machine, deciding that maybe doing an intense shoulder workout might drain the tension that spread from her neck all the way down to the middle of her back.

"Been better," Helo admitted. "Been worse, though, too, I guess. How 'bout you?"

"Pretty much the same," Starbuck grunted as she began a set, not bothering to count her reps, deciding that every set she did that night would be to failure. _Maybe then I can get some frakking sleep._

Silence reigned for several minutes as they both proceeded through their routines. Starbuck was actually startled at how quiet it was; the rhythmic clanking of iron weights and Helo's occasional grunt were relative silence compared to the near-constant noise that typically surrounded her on the busy battlestar. There was no background hum of various conversations, no announcements from the bridge, no crashes or bangs as one of the numerous new crewmen managed to drop something that was either delicate or explosive. Or both. For some reason, she found herself reminded of Caprica City at dawn, when people were just waking up and the streets were almost completely clear. _Just like now, it was almost possible to imagine you were practically alone despite the people that were all around you._ But her stomach sank as memories of Caprica reminded her of someone she'd been trying to forget.

"Can I ask you something?" Helo said, breaking the silence at what Starbuck thought was the perfect moment.

"Shoot."

"It's about…" His voice trailed off, and though he looked away and didn't say another word, Starbuck knew he was talking about Sharon.

"Go ahead," she prompted. "No matter what I might say, whether it pisses you off or whatever, you can at least count on me not to repeat any of this to anyone else. For what that's worth."

"I know." Helo stood up from the leg press machine and stared at the weights, as if they would provide him with the perfect combination of words to help him express what he was thinking and feeling. "It's just… I don't know. It's driving me crazy, you know?"

"You mean Sharon?"

"The _whole thing_ with Sharon," Helo explained.

"How do you mean?"

"I sit in with Doc Drake when he's questioning her."

"Uh-huh."

"And when he asks his questions, it's almost impossible to think of her as anything other than a machine, you know?"

"I can imagine," Starbuck said, trying to be as sympathetic as possible. _Helo's a good guy,_ she reminded herself. _There's no point in telling him I don't think it's **ever** possible to see her as anything other than a machine. Not after what she did to the Old Man._

"I mean, I look at her, and I see Sharon," Helo continued. "What I mean is, in my mind, she's the same woman I flew with before the attack. When I saw her on Caprica and she told me she'd come back from _Galactica_ to get me, I believed it was really her. I had no idea that Sharon – the real Sharon – was back here, with no one any the wiser."

"Uh-huh," Starbuck said with a nod, unable to think of anything else to say. She doubted it would help if she told him she couldn't believe how thickheaded he was being, that it would all start to make a lot more sense if he stopped forcing himself to think of Sharon as a person.

"And I love her," Helo said, sounding almost disgusted with himself, despitye the fact that a wistful smile remained on his face the whole time. "I loved her for so long, even though she was with the chief all that time."

"Already knew that," Starbuck said with a wink.

Helo stared at her, unable to voice a reply.

"Hey, you may be many things, but subtle isn't one of them," she said, shrugging as she walked over and grabbed some dumbbells. "It was obvious to anyone who knew you. Well, except for Sharon and the chief."

"Oh, great…"

"If it's any consolation, you're not the only one living in a festival-worthy drama," Starbuck sighed.

"Really?" Helo asked. He looked like he was weighing the merits of explaining himself, and then said, "Does this have to do with Apollo?"

"Huh?" Starbuck asked quickly, stunned at the question. "Apollo?"

"Well, you two--"

"No," Starbuck objected. "Apollo is--" She stopped herself cold before she said, 'Zak's brother.' She knew that just speaking the words would hurt, and now she did her best not to even think about them. "Look, I was actually talking about someone else."

"Ares?" Helo asked, shrugging his shoulders.

"Gods no," Starbuck said with a laugh. "And if anyone is spreading any rumors to the contrary, feel free to use them for a punching bag," she added.

"Well who else is there?" Helo asked. "I can't imagine… Oh… Hell, no," his voice boomed out in disbelief.

"Yeah," Starbuck said with a shrug, knowing that Helo had guessed.

"Anders."

"Yup, Anders," she answered with a nod.

It was obvious that Helo's sudden interest in doing another set of leg-presses was simply an excuse not to have to say anything, to buy a few moments to come up with something that might be appropriate. The strained look on his face just before he spoke almost made Starbuck feel sorry for him.

"But… you hardly know him," Helo pointed out once he was done with his set.

"Yeah," Starbuck agreed.

"And he's probably dead," Helo added. He winced when he realized what he'd said, but Starbuck nodded, admitting the likelihood.

"Yup. A dead guy. Figures."

"And you…"

"I… I don't know," Starbuck said. "It's just this weird thing. I'll be out there on CAP, and I'll start thinking about him. Or I'll be playing cards with Ares and the guys, and I'll find myself wondering what Sam might say about a joke. Or I'll start wondering what he doing right now, fighting cylons back on Caprica. It's like… I have him in my head, and I can't stop thinking about him. And I know frakking well that it can't be love, because I hardly know him, but when you feel like this, it…"

"I know," Helo nodded. "Believe me, if anyone on the ship knows what it's like to be in love without having a single frakking good reason for it, it's me."

"I'm not in love," Starbuck protested.

"That's not what it sounds like."

"Frak you," she shot back, managing a thin smile to punctuate her words.

"Seriously," Helo said. "Maybe it's not such a bad thing, you know? You can't be a hard-ass all the time. We all need something to keep us going, something to cling to that isn't about the war."

"Isn't about the war?" Starbuck asked.

"I read a book back in high school, about the Cylon War."

"The _First_ Cylon War," Starbuck corrected.

"Yeah, the first. Back then, I couldn't put it down because of the cool war stories; but thinking about it now, the whole thing was really about the time they spent in between the battles. Now all I really remember is how everyone in his unit got so emotionally fragged that after a while all they talked about was what they'd do after the war. It was sort of a way not to think about the fact that they probably wouldn't live that long."

"And here's the part where your attempts to cheer me up start sounding like one of Ares's pep talks," Starbuck chided. "You better quit while you're ahead."

"Fine," Helo said. "But don't be afraid of what you're feeling. Okay?"

"I'm not afraid," Starbuck said.

"Fine," Helo repeated. "And since you're not afraid, then let yourself think about it. And maybe ask yourself what you plan to do with Anders when the war is over."

By the time Starbuck had come up with a suitably sarcastic comment, Helo had walked out, leaving her alone to finish exhausting herself with the weights.

-------------------------------------------------

"Thanks for meeting with me, Billy," Baltar said with a smile. Billy grinned back, though Baltar noted that the expression never reached his guest's eyes. "Can I offer you something to drink?"

"No thank you, Mr. President," Billy answered. "I was told you wanted to see me."

_Fine, we'll get right to business,_ Baltar decided. "Yes, I feel that one of the first things I should do is address your situation here on Colonial One."

"Yes, Mr. President."

"You served President Roslin throughout her entire presidency, and she always spoke very highly of you."

Billy nodded, but didn't say a word.

"And I always noticed how on top of things you were," Baltar added. "I would like to keep you on in your old position, to have you as my personal assistant."

"I'm flattered," Billy responded, "but I'm afraid I have to decline the offer."

"Oh, really?" It had never occurred to Baltar that anyone would refuse an opportunity to work in his new administration. Everyone else he'd asked had agreed, though whether out of a sense of duty, a loyalty to him, or a simple enjoyment of the luxuries to be found on Colonial One, he couldn't say. But they all stayed. _All except for the one person whose inside information may be most important. Maybe I should have asked him first,_ he considered, though he knew that older, career politicians would have been offended if he had talked to a jumped-up college intern before speaking with them.

"I have other plans," Billy explained.

"Yes, I heard," Baltar replied. "You're marrying Petty Officer Dualla."

Again, Billy nodded.

"Well, I can't say I'm not disappointed," Baltar said with a shrug. "Should you change your mind--"

"I won't."

"Ah, yes," Baltar said brusquely. He suddenly did not care for Billy's tone. _I can't imagine he ever spoke to Roslin like that._ "Well, good luck to you."

"Thank you." Billy stood and walked out, leaving Baltar alone with Six.

"I should have handled that better somehow," Baltar muttered.

"He's just a boy, Gaius," Six replied. "You'll be just fine without him."

"He's a boy who knew all of the players behind the scenes, who was used to passing messages back and forth through the fleet," Baltar explained. "Toadies and sycophants, I have in plenty. But sadly, capable bureaucrats are in short supply."

"You're just upset because he wasn't aching to grovel at your feet," Six said with a sarcastic smile. "As great a mind as you are, and as much power as you've amassed for yourself, you're still insecure enough to feel sorry for yourself when you fail to achieve complete adoration from the little people."

"The little people," Baltar repeated. "Yes, of course. But if Roslin hadn't died, Billy wouldn't have been one of the little people. He would have been a major player someday."

"But she _did_ die, so too bad for him."

"Leave me," Baltar snapped, surprised at how disgusted he was at Six's tone when she talked so offhandedly about Roslin's death. _It's not like I even liked Roslin – or that she had any use for me beyond preventing Zarek from being her vice-president – but I'll be damned if I sit here and listen to a cylon speak ill of her._

"Leave you?" Six asked.

Baltar looked up and fixed his stare on his persistent not-so-imaginary friend. _Gods, I never noticed how absolutely ugly she can be,_ he thought, looking past the finely cut clothes and alluring figure to see the empty void behind her eyes. _There's nothing there – no compassion, no pity, and absolutely no genuine affection for me. What have I been doing all this time?_ He almost shuddered, feeling strangely vulnerable alone in the room with her.

"You don't really want me to leave you, Gaius," Six assured him. "You need me. You just don't know how much, yet."

-------------------------------------------------

"Hey," Starbuck said with a friendly nod, self-consciously pulling her towel around herself more tightly.

"Hey," Apollo answered, conspicuously slowing down the process of undressing, hoping to increase the chances that Starbuck would be dressed and out of the locker room before he got to the point where he was taking off his pants.

"Easy CAP today," she commented, rotating her body just enough so that she could make sure Lee wasn't watching her, and denying him a full view if he was. She quickly took off her towel and pulled on some clothes, curious as to why it suddenly mattered to her. _He's seen me naked before,_ she reasoned. _So have all the other pilots. What's the big deal?_ But she knew what the big deal was – _I spilled the beans,_ she thought angrily. _I should never have done that. Especially since it wasn't totally true… at least not the way he'll take it._

She knew that she'd convinced Lee that she had no recollection of their conversation after she returned from Chiron, and she was thankful that he was willing to let the subject drop. _He might even honestly think that I forget saying it, or that it was the alcohol talking, and not me,_ she hoped. _And anyway, it's not like I came right out and professed my love for him or anything, _she reminded herself._ Not like he did with me._

"That thruster still giving you problems?" Apollo asked, thankful that Kara was still keeping her back to him. He slipped out of his pants and wrapped a towel around his waist, hoping that she neither caught a view nor noticed that he was in such a self-conscious rush to make certain she didn't get to see anything she'd already seen dozens of times.

"Think the chief got that taken care of," Kara replied.

"Good," Apollo replied, doing his best to chase away a stray thought about how Kara's hair looked when it was wet. _Make more small talk,_ he told himself, trying to think of something that sounded anything like the countless meaningless comments he'd made in the past. _Before she had too much to drink and said some things she obviously didn't plan to._ He almost felt bad for her, knowing that she was not one to open up. That was why he was so willing to pretend that it had never happened, or act like he believed for even a second that Kara didn't remember saying it.

"You have a chance to sit in on any meetings with President Baltar yet?" Starbuck asked, relieving Apollo of the burden of coming up with distracting chitchat.

"This morning was the first time."

Starbuck turned to face him, hoping she didn't blush when her gaze meandered – strictly of its own accord and only for a fraction of a second – toward his towel. "How'd it go?" she asked, keeping her concentration riveted on his eyes.

"Let's just say I ended up getting a lecture from my father when we were done," Apollo said with a sigh.

"A lecture from the Old Man," Kara chuckled. "I guess that explains why he hasn't chewed me out lately – he's been too busy with you."

"Sure, laugh it up," Lee replied, unable to stifle a broad smile of his own.

"Sorry, Captain CAG, sir," Kara said in a mock stern tone, flashing Lee a quick, sloppy salute. "I should know better than to enjoy the misery of others. Sir." She started to smile, but then caught herself when something about the moment reminded her of her brief return to Caprica. And Sam. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

"It's just that Baltar authorized us to convert another civilian ship for military use," Apollo explained. He noticed something flicker behind Kara's eyes, but he was unable to place it. He had seen it before – several times lately, in fact – but he had resigned himself long ago to the reality that there were some things about Kara Thrace that he would never understand.

"Another ship, huh? This one gonna be any better than that tub we took to Chiron?"

"It's the _Aether_," Apollo said.

"State of the art, very nice," Starbuck said. Lee glowered when she expressed approval of the move, so she searched desperately for a new topic. "So whatcha doing for dinner?" she blurted out without thinking, instantly concerned that Apollo would think she was asking him to join her. No sooner had she spoken the words than she remembered what she had said to Ares recently – _"Male and female pilots have dinner, everyone's gonna assume that something's going on." Frak._

"I'm just going to grab something and take it to my office," he replied. "Lots of paperwork to do; a CAG's work is never done."

"So you've told me," she answered. "I guess I'll catch up with Ares or something." Something momentarily darkened behind Apollo's eyes, but they brightened again almost immediately.

"Have fun," he told her.

"A few of us are planning on hitting the simulator later," Starbuck said. "Maybe you could meet up with us then." Though she put her best effort into sounding like she wanted him to join them, she partially hoped he would decline the invitation; being around Lee was starting to get too awkward to be worthwhile.

"Maybe," Apollo told her, knowing even as he spoke that there was no way he would go anywhere near the simulators if he knew she was going to be there. _It's just a little awkward right now,_ he told himself. _Give it a few days – a week, tops – and everything between us will be fine again._

_To be continued……………………………_


	3. New Challenges

Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

-------------------------------------------------

**III – New Challenges**

"He can't delay forever," Ellen Tigh said.

Tom Zarek only glared at her in response, clearly offended that she even saw the need to point that out.

"Eventually a vote will happen, Tom."

"And by then, Baltar will have had time to secure his position," Zarek retorted. "First he wants to finish the census; that's about three weeks right there. Then we have to compile all of the data; that'll take at least another three weeks, probably more, since we have neither a trained staff nor a computer system designed to compile the information quickly and easily. Then comes voter registration; we'll need to give people at least a week, and probably two, to do that. If we want to hurry things along, I guess we could allow people to register to run for office at the same time they register to vote, but we'll have to keep that registration open for at least two weeks."

"So you're already looking at well over a month before campaigning can start," Ellen muttered.

"Not exactly," Zarek replied. "Baltar may be inexperienced, but he's also smart. He's first going to point out that we'll need some type of review to determine what posts need to be filled; then we'll have to address registration rules."

"What do you mean?"

"Certain offices will, of course, be dissolved due to a lack of necessity," Zarek explained. "We know that each Colony will retain its representative to the Quorum of Twelve, but beyond that there's a lot of uncertainty. Each of the colonies also had a governor, someone who sat as the executive for each colony's bureaucracy; does each colony really need that anymore, or has the population been reduced to the point that each representative of the Quorum of Twelve can manage those responsibilities? Does each Colony still have its own parliament? What if the census shows a large number of Delphi citizens are still alive? Do they get to elect a new mayor to look out for their own interests? Should we maybe change our thinking on all of this and say each ship gets a representative to a newly formed, all-inclusive parliament, some sort of people's council? If we do that, then does each ship only get one representative, or should larger ships with more people be allowed more representatives? If we create a new parliament like that, what will its powers and responsibilities be?"

"Okay, I get it," Ellen interrupted. "There's a lot to think about, a lot to discuss."

"And innumerable ways to stall an election by debating what the elections will be for," Zarek said. "And like I said, we'll also eventually end up debating election rules. Some posts required a person to collect a certain number of signatures from registered voters before running for office. We may not be able to require that anymore; and if we do, we may need to change the number required."

"And then once this is all decided, we'll need time for campaigning."

"Of course," Zarek spat. "We can't have an election without candidates having an opportunity to introduce themselves to the voters, to explain what's important to them and what they stand for. He could drag this out for months, maybe even close to a year."

"But the people will want an election, Tom. President Roslin promised them that."

"And now President Roslin is dead, and the people are scared. They want security and familiarity. For the time being, they'll accept Baltar."

"For the time being," Ellen said with a smile.

"We've already begun our move by connecting my name to the prophecies of the Condemned Man. Now all we need is to wait a little bit for the shock of Roslin's death to wear off."

"Then people will be able to think more about the prophecies," Ellen surmised. "They'll start to clamor for you to take over, elections or not."

"Of course they will," Zarek said smoothly. "The people need a leader, and their religion has prophesied exactly who that leader will be."

"You."

"Yes, me. And now we just have to figure out a way to strike when the iron is hot, to prevent Baltar from delaying long enough for people to start questioning the wisdom of allowing millennia-old prophecies to guide their decisions."

-------------------------------------------------

"So I assume this is about the wedding," the admiral said to Billy as he poured two cups of coffee. "Cream or sugar?"

"Just a little sugar," Billy said. "And no, this is actually about something else."

"Really?" Adama asked. If this had been just a few weeks earlier, Billy's visit would have heralded a message from the president. Now, the admiral didn't know what it meant. _Unless he's gone to work for Baltar,_ Adama decided, thinking that likely.

"I'd like to enlist," Billy said.

"What?" Adama asked. That definitely took him by surprise. Billy had always proven himself intelligent, hard working, and resourceful, but Adama had never thought of him as a soldier.

"I'd like to enlist, and I was wondering what kind of position I could get," Billy explained.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I was a semester away from getting my degree," Billy answered. "In fact, working with the Secretary of Education was going to earn me the last of my credits, so I guess one could argue that I've earned my degree, even if there's no one to hand me the piece of parchment. University graduates had an opportunity to enlist as officers, and I was wondering if I would have the same chance."

"An officer…"

"I know you need people all over your ship, even all over the fleet," Billy said quickly. "I know you might even prefer to have marines… some kind of infantry… I don't know. But I could serve, and--"

"And you don't want a position that you'd consider beneath you," Adama finished.

"That's not what I--"

"Yes it is," Adama said with a soft smile. "You worked beside the president long enough to get a touch of elitism."

"Admiral, I really--"

"I don't mean to offend you," Adama assured the young man. He smiled thinly, remembering when he had first enlisted, and how he had gone over the paperwork several times to make certain he would not only receive a commission, but that he would be assigned exactly where he had been told he would. _Billy's just doing the same thing, and now I get to see it from the older officer's point of view._

"Admiral, I just want to join up. I want to serve."

"Does Dee know?"

"We've discussed it," Billy answered in a tone that clearly said that the topic had been addressed, but no consensus had been reached. _So Dee isn't exactly thrilled with this decision._

"Is this just so that you and Dee can be closer?"

"No."

"Then if I could ask why you want to join," Adama prompted. "You seemed to be building a good career for yourself. I don't see why you'd want to give that up and enlist."

"I was working with President Roslin when she was Secretary of Education," Billy explained. "I know it sounds crazy, given that it was less than a year ago and I'm still so young, but I was really full of wide-eyed idealism, the way that only young people can be."

"And you've grown up a lot since then," Adama said, noting that Billy's explanation actually didn't sound crazy at all.

"But as long as I was with President Roslin, I felt like I was making a difference, like whatever I did at her behest was for the greater good."

"She had that effect on people."

"And now that she's gone… I don't know," Billy said. "Not long after she died, Tom Zarek offered me a job."

"Did he," Adama said, noting that he didn't sound any more surprised than he actually was.

"And I considered it," Billy admitted. "I thought it over, I slept on it, and I almost accepted. I mean, I always sort of saw the method behind his madness, I think… I don't condone what he did, but I think I understand it. I also figured that there were people who always said bad things about President Roslin, but I knew they were all lies. I thought that maybe some of the things I heard about Zarek were the same thing, that maybe once you got past the BS, that there maybe a good man there."

"And?"

"And he's a convicted murderer and terrorist," Billy said with a shrug. "At the end of the day, there's no getting around that; he might be a man of conscience, but a conscience that allows a man to murder to make his point is not a conscience I want filtering orders that might come my way. I decided that maybe I was already getting like Marshall Bagot and some of the others."

"How do you mean?"

"I'm sure they were all idealistic when they were my age," Billy explained, surprising Adama with his maturity and insight. "But somewhere along the way, they got used to compromising, to making deals. President Roslin never did that. She did what she believed."

"She was in a unique situation," Adama pointed out.

"Maybe so, but she stuck to doing what she believed was right. Tom Zarek isn't going to do that. Neither is President Baltar – I can see that in him already. He's not going to be a good president."

"He offered you a job, too?"

"Yeah," Billy admitted. "Didn't have to think it over this time, though. I want to make a difference; I want to serve the rest of the survivors. I owe President Roslin at least that much. I don't trust Baltar and the others."

"And you trust the military?" Adama asked, amused that someone so close to a civilian president – especially one who had been in Laura's position – would ever feel that way.

"No, I don't trust the military," Billy replied. "But I trust you, just like President Roslin did."

"Okay," Adama said, satisfied that Billy's reasons for enlisting were as good – _or even better,_ he decided – than most he had ever heard. "You're right about what you said; if the attack hadn't happened, your education would have qualified you for a commission as an officer. So if you really want to do this, I'll start you as an Ensign."

"Thank you," Billy responded, absolutely glowing.

"Thank you, _sir_," Adama corrected with an indulgent, fatherly smile.

"I'm sorry. Sir. Thank you, sir."

Adama couldn't help but smile at Billy's sudden self-conscious awkwardness, which he developed only moments after a fairly long, candid exchange. "Come back in two days," Adama told him. "Consider this the last liberty you get until maybe I authorize a day or two for you and Dee after the wedding. Use that time to make sure you and Dee are both in agreement; if not, no one is going to hold it against you if you change your mind and go back to working for the government."

"Yes sir."

"Dismissed," Adama replied gruffly. Billy did a poor job of turning on his heel to leave, forcing Adama to smile. _Well, I was looking for someone to train as a new 3rd shift LSO,_ he reminded himself. _Guess that's taken care of._

-------------------------------------------------

It was worse than Apollo had imagined when Helo stopped by and warned him about rising tension in the officer's club. He could hear Hot Dog's voice clearly, shouting a string of profanities as Kat's laughter drowned out most everything else. When he arrived on the scene, he found Hot Dog out of his chair, glaring down at Starbuck and Ares, both of whom seemed rather surprised but wholly unimpressed by his attempt at intimidation.

"But I just drew one of these cards with the "K" on them," Hot Dog protested.

"They're kings," Ares told him.

"Whatever the frak they are, I just drew one."

"Mm-hmm," Starbuck nodded. "So you have to discard it."

"Last time I got one of them I got to draw another card," Hot Dog said.

"That was this morning, before we went on patrol," Starbuck pointed out.

"So?"

"A king or a two gives you another card, unless it's night," Ares explained.

"When a queen or a four gets you an extra card," Starbuck added. "But then you have to discard a king or a two."

"Correct, as always," Ares said, puffing away at a cigar.

"But then you'll have to discard another card after that," Starbuck said.

"Because it's night?"

"No, because then your turn will be over," Ares responded.

"This game is bullshit." Hot Dog threw up his arms and walked out, completely uninterested in hearing another word. Kat was laughing so hard she was crying, but Apollo noticed she seemed in no hurry to take Hot Dog's vacant seat.

"He had a shronk, anyway," Starbuck said, looking at Hot Dog's cards once he'd left the room.

"What's this?" Apollo asked.

"Playing cards, Lee," Starbuck said with a grin. "Pull up a chair."

"Hot Dog seemed… suspicious of your rules," Apollo said hesitantly.

"Hot Dog's made a few too many high-G rolls in his Viper," Starbuck grinned. "I think he may have suffered some brain damage. The rules are perfectly clear."

Starbuck's face was the very image of innocence, but Kat found it impossible to stifle another string of giggles. "I think I'll pass," Apollo said.

"Suit yourself," Starbuck said.

"I will," Apollo assured her. "I don't think I'm going to play cards – or any game, for that matter – against the two of you when the rules change according to the time of day."

"And sometimes by the day of the week," Ares put in.

"Right," Starbuck agreed.

"What the hell are those cards, anyway?" Apollo asked.

Ares lifted them off the tabletop and fanned them out in his hands. "Not entirely sure," he admitted, glancing at the rectangular cards with black and red markings. "I ran into a guy on a small freighter a few years ago. He had engine problems and we answered his distress beacon. He had a few decks of these cards I'd never seen before, and he showed me a few games. Kinda got hooked."

"A few games," Apollo repeated suspiciously. "Are they all like, umm… what the hell was it you were just playing?"

"Doesn't matter," Ares said with a smile. "No, the other few I know are totally different. I was just about to teach Starbuck another one if you want to stick around."

"No thanks," Lee said.

"Oh, come on, Lee," Starbuck said. "I mean, Apollo," she corrected awkwardly. He locked his eyes onto hers, and for just a fraction of a second he saw something in her eyes that he'd never seen before. _She was surprised she called me Lee in front of the others,_ he decided, not knowing what to make of the revelation. _She has to have done that at some point before now._

"Yeah, come on, Lee," Ares said, eerily mimicking Starbuck's tone.

"It's going to cost me money, isn't it?"

"Only if you lose," Ares responded.

"Maybe next time."

"Well, you know where to find us if you change your mind," Ares said as Apollo turned and left, surprised at how uncomfortable it made him feel to think about Starbuck and Ares enjoying a few games of cards together.

_To be continued……………………………_


	4. Machinations and Confrontations

Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

-------------------------------------------------

**IV – Machinations and Confrontations**

"I'm going to start moving against Baltar at the next Quorum meeting," Zarek said, swirling his cup of coffee as he spoke.

"It's sooner than you wanted," Ellen pointed out, wondering why Tom had moved up his timetable.

"I heard rumors that he's thinking of disbanding the Quorum, or maybe just restructuring it. Also some support for the idea of a bicameral legislature of some kind. Whatever he does, there's no doubt he's doing it to cut away at some of my base of support and influence."

"Sounds too clever for him," Ellen commented. Baltar had proven to be extremely intelligent, but for weeks and months he had missed one opportunity after another to move up the political ladder, to accrue power equal to his station. _But now that Roslin's dead, it's like he's a completely different person._ It occurred to Ellen that perhaps it was not Baltar who had changed. _Perhaps he's listening to some new people, the proverbial powers behind the throne. He's definitely getting advice from someone new, someone who understands the system._

"Clever or not, I have to deal with Baltar before he succeeds in hurting me somehow. That means I have to do something about Adama."

"What do you mean?" Ellen asked, not caring for Zarek's tone one bit.

"I can't fight a two-front war, so to speak," he explained. "While Roslin was alive, I had no hope of ascending to leadership so long as the two of them presented a united front – the military and the civilian government. There's no friendship, or maybe even respect, between Adama and Baltar, so that opens up some possibilities."

"Divide and conquer," Ellen said with a satisfied sigh.

"But even divided, the two of them could cause me trouble," Zarek explained. "I need a way to know what Adama is up to."

"You think he's up to something?"

"I'm certain of it," Zarek said.

"I haven't heard anything."

"And the silence is telling," Zarek said with a thin smile. "Adama has often let the civilian population know about things he's done to increase security. It lets people feel safe and go on with their lives; it helps give them an incentive to play by the rules."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, imagine what would happen if the people started to believe they were going to die soon, that there was nothing anyone could do to prevent it," Zarek said. "There'd be chaos. People would take what they wanted, from whomever they wanted, because there'd be no consequences. Social order starts with the concept of consequences, whether good or bad. Adama knows that, and so did Roslin."

"And you think he's up to something because he hasn't said anything?"

"He just dragooned the _Aether_ into his military fleet."

"I've never heard of it," Ellen admitted.

"Because it's small, just a survey ship," Zarek explained. "Too small, in fact, to be of much military use. At least in a combat setting."

"So you're suspicious of why he selected that ship," Ellen surmised. "It's a decision that's completely out of character."

"Exactly. The _Aether_ makes a superb reconnaissance ship, though. I think Adama's planning a military operation."

"An attack?"

"Or a defense. Either there's a threat out there posing an unavoidable danger, or he's planning to launch an attack of his own."

"Go on the offensive?" Ellen asked. That did not sound like Bill at all; she'd shared enough dinnertime conversations to know he realized the war was over, that humanity's only hope was to outrun the cylons, to find a new place to live where the cylons would never find them, maybe even to find Earth.

"It's just one of the two possibilities," Zarek said with a shrug. "Personally, from what I've seen and heard, Adama would never do something as foolhardy as launch an offensive. So that points to the other possibility as being the truth – there's something out there he doesn't think we can avoid. Maybe a cylon fleet that's starting to catch up, or which even got ahead of us. Maybe a cylon base that has supplies we can't pass up, that we'll eventually need if we're going to keep the fleet together. I don't know…"

"But it would be helpful if we did," Ellen guessed.

"Yes."

"I could try asking Saul," she offered.

"Unless that's what Adama is expecting," Zarek said. "Any significant military victory would energize the people and make Adama a hero, just as we're approaching elections and I'm about to start cutting away at Baltar's power. That would put Adama in a good position."

"And he _did_ oppose Roslin," Ellen thought out loud. The frown on Zarek's face was enough to let her know that he'd already considered the possibility of Adama trying to use the Condemned Man prophecy for his own ends.

"So if he's planning on something, he might not tell Saul everything."

"I've heard several people tell me that Adama is used to keeping secrets, even from his officers and the civilian government, when he considers something to be need-to-know," Ellen said. "I remember Saul mentioning that. And the fact that anyone could be a cylon agent has only got to increase his tendency toward secrecy."

"We also have to accept the possibility that Adama knows you've been seeing me."

"I've been very careful, and--"

"He doesn't have to know what we've talking about – or doing – in order to be suspicious," Zarek explained. "He only needs to know that we've been seen together here on _Cloud Nine_, that we've spoken casually at the club."

"Which we have," Ellen admitted.

"Exactly. So Adama might give misinformation to Saul, knowing you'll get it from him and pass it to me."

"Maybe you're over-thinking this," Ellen suggested. None of this really sounded like the Bill she knew; she found it hard to imagine him withholding vital tactical information from his XO, or deliberately lying to his XO on the off-chance that maybe he would mention something to his wife, just in case the wife was conspiring with a man who could be considered an enemy should Adama abandon all previously known traits and aspire to political power. _No, that's not at all like Bill._

"I have no doubt that I _am_ over-thinking it," Zarek admitted. "Most of this is farfetched. But over-thinking is far preferable to taking things for granted and having our plans blow up in our faces later."

"Okay," Ellen responded with a nod. "Then I think I may have a way to get sensitive military tactical information without having to go through Saul."

-------------------------------------------------

"Starbuck, have a seat," the Admiral said, gesturing to a chair as he sat down, himself.

"Not that I suspect an ulterior motive, but why did you call me in, Sir?" she said with a smile.

"You don't think it's possible I just wanted to talk?" he replied.

_He's being too friendly,_ Starbuck decided. _He wants me to do something. Something dangerous… Dangerous enough so that he feels guilty bringing it up._ "No one calls me in just to talk, Sir," Starbuck responded. She was still smiling, but now it was a forced expression intended to make the Old Man feel better about what he was about to do. _Whatever that is._

"Okay, Starbuck – I need something done." Adama sighed and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes as he conspicuously avoided looking at Kara.

"Something dangerous," she added.

"Yes," Adama admitted. "Something incredibly dangerous. And extremely important."

"You don't have to say the last part, Admiral," Kara assured him. The fact that he was meeting her like this already told her all she needed to know about the importance of the mission. "What do you need?"

"How's that stealth ship of Tyrol's working out?"

"Better than I think even he thought it would." Starbuck's stomach lurched slightly; her gut was already warning her where the conversation was headed, and she didn't like it one bit.

"When's the next test flight?"

"Tomorrow, 0800."

"I need you to violate your orders and try out the FTL drive," Adama said.

"That's not on the test flight plan."

"I know," Adama said. "But no one is going to be surprised if you go and decide to try it out on your own while Tigh and I pace around C.I.C, cursing your impulsiveness."

"Yes, sir," Starbuck said with a nod, remembering the last time she made an impromptu test of a ship's FTL drive. That time she'd done so against the Admiral's orders. _At least this time I won't come back to an ass-chewing._

"Where am I going?"

"Colonel Tigh will give you the coordinates," Adama explained. "Once you're there, I want a full tactical recon."

"Understood."

"No one can know about this, Kara."

"Yes, sir."

"Not even Lee."

"Yes, sir." She nodded, but kept her surprise hidden. _What the hell is he up to that he doesn't even want the CAG to know?_

"And especially not Baltar or anyone else over there on _Colonial One_. This is strictly classified and compartmentalized."

"Of course."

"Dismissed."

Starbuck turned on her heel and walked out, hoping that Colonel Tigh would at least give her more details as to what she could expect whenever she got wherever it was she was going. _And why the hell doesn't he want Apollo to know?_

-------------------------------------------------

"Everything's clear out here," Apollo reported in to _Galactica_ from the edge of the fleet. He banked softly and veered out toward the _Archimedes_, a quick fly-by giving him a full view of what appeared to be some large-scale construction. _What the hell is that?_ he wondered, cutting his main engines and maneuvering closer.

The _Archimedes_ was a Zero-G construction vessel, primarily used for major repairs of starships and space stations. From the first day of their flight, the ship's crew had been busy repairing combat damage sustained by almost every ship in the fleet. But that was obviously not the case now.

_They aren't repairing anything,_ Apollo decided. _They're building something._ He maneuvered still closer, able to make out the smooth lines from the machine tools used to craft the freshly mined ore. Apollo counted four large modules, two on each side of the _Archimedes_. One of them caught his eye; its construction was further along, and the nature of the long cylinder attached to the module was unmistakable.

_What the hell is he up to?_ Apollo wondered, unable to take his eyes from the unexpected sight.

"Come in, _Galactica_," Apollo muttered over the wireless.

"Yes, Captain?" Dee's voice answered. Apollo could tell from her voice that she was smiling, and he couldn't help an involuntary grin of his own in response, despite the rapidly rising anger he felt as he looked over the _Archimedes._

"I want to speak with Actual," he said.

"The Admiral isn't in C.I.C.," Dee replied. "Do you need me to get him?"

"No, I'm coming back. Launch one of the alert fighters to take my spot in the CAP." Apollo rolled away from the _Archimedes_ and headed back to _Galactica_. He could only hope he would get the answers to some questions he wished he didn't have to ask.

-------------------------------------------------

The darkness consumed her, surrounded her, drowning out sound, smell, taste, and touch as completely as it did sight. But the woman knew she was not alone. She drew a deep breath, prepared to call out to the person who was with her, but thought better of it at the last moment.

_I have no idea who's out there,_ she told herself. _There's no guarantee that whoever it is is friendly._ Fear washed over her then – fear of the dark, of the unseen and unknown; fear of being alone; fear of _not_ being alone. She remained perfectly still, initially fascinated by the fact that she her senses were so entirely smothered that she could not even tell if she was sitting, standing, or lying down.

But fascination quickly mingled with her fear; terror flashed to life in the woman's heart. Terror of the unknown, of the dark, and what was lurking, unseen, gods only knew how close to her.

She took another deep breath, noting that she could not hear the air pass through her nose, that she could not feel her chest expand. _Where am I? What is this place?_

-------------------------------------------------

_Unbelievable,_ Baltar thought, impatiently drumming his fingers on the top of his desk, paying scant amounts of attention to reports explaining the reason it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain enough operational Vipers on _Galactica_. He glanced at the clock, surprised to find that it was only two minutes later than the last time he'd looked. _Feels like at least twenty minutes. Where the hell is she?_

Rarely had he ever wanted Six to appear, but this was one of those times. Several hours of impatient waiting were finally rewarded when he felt slender fingers grasp the back of his shoulders.

"You seem tense, Gaius," she commented, kneading sore muscles and bringing an immediate release of tension to muscles Baltar didn't even know he had.

"I've been thinking a bit, lately," Baltar said.

"And rarely does any good come of it when your thoughts lead you to use that tone with me," Six responded.

"Funny how this tone keeps popping up," Baltar commented. "One would think I was starting to grow suspicious of your motives."

"What, exactly, do you mean?" Six asked, leaning down over Baltar's shoulder, whispering the question in his ear. A chill ran down his spine, but he ignored his sudden desire.

"You seem extremely willing to follow many of the prophecies," Baltar pointed out. "And every time I seem irritatingly willing to strike out in a direction of my own choosing, you end up either warning me that my decision may anger god, or just calling my decisions blasphemous. Any time I demonstrate even the slightest hint of an inkling of doubt, I get the same tired sermon about trusting in god's will."

"God _does_ have a plan for you, Gaius."

"But what interests me is that the Condemned Man is part of the same set of prophecies you invoke whenever convenient," Baltar retorted. "So it seems to me that I'm a simple stop-gap in the master plan, a nobody who'll be forgotten once Tom Zarek assumes control of humanity's caravan of the heavens."

Six laughed in Baltar's face, though there was no malice in her voice. "Gaius, you proceed from false assumptions."

"You don't say."

"Prophecies can be tricky things," Six cooed. "For example, nowhere in the prophecy does it say _when_ the Condemned Man will assume leadership."

"So you're telling me that it could be years before Tom Zarek takes my place in your plans."

"Oh, Gaius," Six answered. "You really are _cute_ when you're being insecure. Who ever said Tom Zarek is the Condemned Man?"

"Excuse me?"

"I seem to remember you spending time in _Galactica's_ brig, falsely accused of the crime for which you're actually guilty."

"So you're saying I'm the Condemned Man?"

"You're saying you doubt it?"

"Well, there's the passage about how the Condemned Man opposed the lost leader," Baltar reminded Six. "I don't remember ever facing off against President Roslin."

"Have faith, Gaius," Six said, reciting her familiar refrain. "Haven't I proven that God has a plan for you? Why do you continue to doubt that? Why do you continue to search for the slightest flaw in the prophecies? Be at peace, and trust in God's plan, in God's love for you."

"Faith," Baltar spat. "Trust. Love. Your god asks a great deal."

"And He'll reward you for your devotion," Six assured him. "You will sit at God's side, an example to all those who struggle with faith."

"That sounds like a fancy way of saying I'm going to die," Baltar quipped.

"We all die, Gaius," Six responded with a casual shrug. "It's best if you keep in mind that there is a life beyond this one, and in that life you will reap what you've sown."

"Of course," Baltar muttered, suddenly not liking the sound of Six's promises. _Reap what I've sown,_ he thought with a shudder. _Just what might await a man who's responsible for the near-total annihilation of his people?_

-------------------------------------------------

"Put that down and come with me," Starbuck said evenly, standing in the doorway to the CAG's office, tapping her foot impatiently. "This is no time to be doing paperwork."

"What do you mean?" Lee asked.

"I mean I heard all about that workout session you had a little while ago," Starbuck answered. "Dee told me all about it. Sounds like you worked her pretty hard."

"Huh?" Apollo asked quickly.

_Too quickly,_ Starbuck decided. _What the hell is he trying to hide? _"You don't remember the intense sparring session followed by pummeling the heavy bag? Just what did that poor bag ever do to you?" she asked.

"Not now, Starbuck," Lee muttered, turning back to his paperwork. "I'm not in the mood."

_No kidding,_ Starbuck thought, reflecting on what Dee had told her. Apollo had apparently gone straight from his CAP to the admiral's quarters, and from there down to the gym, where he followed rough hand-to-hand training pounding away on the heavy bag until he was barely able to hold up his hands anymore. She knew that Lee had likely been chewed out for something, and she saw it as her personal mission in life to cheer him up.

"Dismissed," Lee said, clearly irritated by Starbuck's continued presence.

"Not until you tell me what happened," she countered.

"I just gave you a direct order, Lieutenant."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm serious."

"I don't doubt it. But are you prepared to call the marines to take me down to the brig if I refuse to obey?"

"I don't need the marines," Lee assured her. There was a gleam in his eye, something that momentarily reminded her of Zak. _And of the Old Man when I told him about Zak._ Lee was looking for a fight, and Starbuck had just given him all the excuse he needed.

"You're usually all about talking things out," Starbuck said. "At least when it's other people's issues. You don't get to clam up now that you're the one who's cranky."

"That's it, you're grounded."

"No I'm not."

"Excuse me?"

"You're not grounding me," Starbuck responded, crossing her arms defiantly.

"I just did."

Starbuck waited silently for a few moments before she said, "No."

"No?"

"I'm not letting you ground me." She wished she had a camera to take a picture of the look on his face. She'd never seen such an absolutely amusing combination of fury and bewilderment before, and she doubted she'd ever have the opportunity again.

"You have five seconds to walk out of here," Apollo said. "After that, I _will_ call the marines."

"I thought you said you don't need the marines."

"Five."

"If you want me out of here, you're gonna have to do it yourself, Lee."

"Four."

"Don't think I'm bluffing, either."

"Three."

"And if you think I' gonna pull my punches just because your daddy is the admiral, you're sorely mistaken."

"Two."

"In fact, I think I'm gonna make sure I give you a black eye so you'll have to explain to your dad how a girl beat you up and took your lunch money."

"One. Fine, have it your way, Kara."

"Bring it on, tough guy," Starbuck said as Lee stood up and started to cross toward her. He looked absolutely murderous, and something in the back of Starbuck's head warned her that maybe she shouldn't be so cavalier. That voice helped her wriggle free when Lee reached for her, producing a set of shackles, seemingly from thin air.

"What the frak, Lee?"

"It's either me or a team of marines, Kara. Which way you want it?"

"The handcuffs are going a bit far, don't you think?" she asked, pushing him back and taking a small step into his office, closing the door behind her. She had no interest in letting people see the CAG get roughed up by a junior officer. _Besides, if Tigh comes along, it'll be harder to court martial me if he doesn't actually see me knock Lee on his ass._

"You just had to keep pushing, didn't you?" Lee asked, still holding the cuffs in front of him. "How many times do you stalk through the hallways, enraged at one thing or another? You expect everyone to leave you the hell alone, but the one time I'm in the same kind of mood, you just have to keep pushing my buttons. Why can't you ever leave well enough alone?"

"Why can't you ev--" Her words were cut off when she sidestepped to her left, leaping up onto Apollo's desk to get away from him when he lunged at her. "Seriously, what the frak is wrong with you?"

"Get down from there!" he ordered.

The inanity of the situation drained Starbuck's anger instantly, and she found herself laughing hysterically at Lee's irate expression as she gazed down at him. _And it's not like he's gonna be able to write me up too easily, either, since I'm standing on his folder of blank reprimand forms._

"Lieutenant, I'm giving you to the count of three to get down from there."

"Only three this time?"

"One."

"Seriously, Lee, what happened?"

"Two."

"Fine," Starbuck relented, throwing her hands up in surrender as she stepped down, finding herself standing behind the desk, with Lee between her and the door. "Now will you talk about it?"

"Get out," he told her. "Now."

"Fine, Lee. If that's what you want, fine." Starbuck started to push past him, and just when she realized his guard was down about as much as it would be, she grabbed the back of his head and pulled him forward, kissing him before she even knew for certain what she was doing, to say nothing of why she was doing it. Several seconds later, when she finally came up for air, she looked at Lee's face. The anger was gone, but the bewilderment that had been there minutes earlier was still there. And it seemed to be joined by a healthy dose of panic.

"Kara, what the frak…"

"Shhhh," she replied, placing her finger on his lips. "You had your chance to talk, Lee."

"But what the frak!"

"Three," Starbuck said with a giggle, finishing Lee's counting for him. "See you later, Mr. CAG, sir," she added, half-saluting, half-waving goodbye as she walked out of the office and down the hall.

_To be continued……………………………_


	5. Wagers, Wins, and Losses

Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

-------------------------------------------------

**V – Wagers, Wins, and Losses**

"I'm in," Kara said, tossing several cubits onto the middle of the table. She stared down Ares, waiting for even the slightest telltale sign of what he might be holding.

"I raise," Ares said, increasing the bet by another twenty cubits.

"Me too," Apollo said, tossing another forty onto the quickly growing pile of cubits.

"No, I'm out," she said, dropping her cards on the table. She hated losing, especially when she had already bet so much, but another glance at her cards assured her that she was likely to lose to at least one of the other players, if not both of them. _And there's no way I can bluff them _both_ out of this hand._

"Hmm…" Ares said, grinning at Apollo. "You're tough to read, Captain CAG."

"So I hear," Apollo replied, his face an emotionless mask. "It's your bet, you know."

"And you seem in a rush to have me make a decision," Ares pointed out. "Maybe it's because you're bluffing, and you want me to look at all those cubits and panic into folding before I lose anymore."

"Maybe."

"Then again, you might be holding one hell of a hand over there, and you might want me to raise even more."

"Could be."

"What do you think, Starbuck?" Ares asked.

"Dunno," she answered. "Everyone is good at something, and with Lee, I think his natural, gods-given talent is at the table."

"Maybe," Ares shrugged. "After all, it's certainly not in the cockpit."

"Definitely not," Starbuck agreed.

"Joke all you want, but you won't make me slip up," Apollo assured them both. "And it's still your bet, Ares."

"Fine, I call."

"And I win," Apollo said when they both laid down their cards.

"Rat bastard," Ares muttered.

"That's _Captain_ Rat Bastard," Apollo joked. "Still your superior officer."

"Sorry, _Captain_ Bastard," Ares shot back with a laugh. "I assure you I meant no disrespect. Please don't toss me in the brig."

"I'll let it slide this once."

"Better not let your dad hear that," Ares replied.

"What's that supposed to mean?" In an instant, the levity drained from the room.

"Well, the admiral's getting all strict with the military thing lately, is all," Ares explained. "New troops, another converted ship, and even a couple of courts martial, from what I heard."

"Discipline has been getting a little lax," Apollo replied.

"Not debating that," Ares said. "But it feels to me like we're on the road to martial law."

"No." Apollo's tone made it clear that was not a subject open for debate, but Ares either didn't notice, or didn't care.

"I heard martial law was declared once already," he said. "What's to stop it from happening again?"

"That was Colonel Tigh, not my… not the admiral."

"Wanna deal the cards, Apollo?" Starbuck asked, hoping she could get the topic changed before the night devolved into yet another debate on the merits of martial law versus the freedoms of democracy.

"Sure," Apollo muttered, though he did not let the subject drop. "The admiral would never even consider martial law, Ares."

"Why not? Seems to me like it might be a good idea."

"Your bet, Apollo," Starbuck pointed out, reminding Apollo that she and Ares had already played the blinds.

"Martial law is never a good idea," Apollo said, hardly glancing at his cards before he called the blind. Starbuck followed suit a moment later.

"Half the people I see are convinced that Tom Zarek is the Condemned Man in Pythia's prophecies," Ares said. "I'm not raising, go ahead and throw the flop."

"Seriously, you should get out more, because I've hardly heard a peep about Zarek," Apollo said. "You're totally blowing this out of proportion."

"No, _you're_ the one who's out of touch; it's because people don't feel comfortable talking about that stuff in front of you, given that the Old Man is your father," Ares replied. "The Sagitarrons are almost all supporting Zarek, and the Geminons support prophecy. Throw in all the people who owe him favors, and President Baltar finds himself on the hot seat. If there aren't elections soon, we could be looking at some protests, maybe things'll be bad enough to qualify as civil unrest."

"You're exaggerating."

"But if I'm not, wouldn't martial law be necessary to calm things down until order can be restored?"

"I'm not getting drawn into this debate with you again, Ares," Apollo answered. "You may as well ask what I'd do if we found Earth tomorrow, because it's just as relevant."

"Refusing to accept the chances of those circumstances arising is not the same as answering the question, Apollo. And my question is simple – if all hell broke loose, wouldn't martial law be preferable to anarchy?"

"The existence of anarchy could only be due to the complete failure of the civil government, which isn't going to happen," Apollo countered. "And since it isn't going to happen, there won't ever be a situation where the military has any pretext for stepping in."

"How about civil war?" Ares asked.

"I'm betting ten," Starbuck interrupted, tossing a cubit onto the table. Both Ares and Apollo ignored her, and she leaned back in her chair, knowing that the game would be forgotten until they were done with their latest tête-à-tête.

"Civil war," Apollo said skeptically. "It won't happen. It can't."

"Someone's living in denial."

"Forget the politics and philosophy for a minute," Apollo said. "Just from a practical standpoint, there can't be a civil war. The few weapons floating around the civilian population are quickly running out of ammunition."

"You underestimate the black market," Ares chided. "We make ammunition here on _Galactica_ every day, and some of it gets smuggled out."

"What?"

"Can't tell me you're surprised," Ares countered. "There's money to be made, luxuries to be earned. You did some investigating into the black market, yourself. You know how ridiculously well developed it is – weapons, drugs, medication, alcohol, jewelry, even children. And anyway, saying there won't be a civil war just because people don't have guns has got to be the most asinine, naïve thing I've ever heard. People don't need firearms, Apollo. Sticks and stones will do. So will jagged pieces of broken glass, knives, old pipes, assorted poisons, wrenches, candlesticks, and even rope. Never underestimate the creativity of a human being intent on killing another human being. Humanity doesn't need the cylons to wipe it out – I think you'll find most people are quite capable of the task, themselves."

"No," Apollo said, standing from the table and glaring down at Ares. "People have learned, Ares."

"Learned what?"

"That we can't keep living the way we did, divided against each other under the Colonies' guise of order and security."

"Not even the threat of the cylons will keep all these people on the same page forever, Apollo," Ares chided. "Sooner or later, it's bound to come apart at the seams. I'm just trying to get you to open your eyes to reality."

"If that's reality, I don't want it," Apollo said, turning and leaving.

"Nice job, Ares," Starbuck groused. "You just ruined the game." She got up and left the other pilot sitting alone at the table as she walked out, hoping to track Lee down before he got too far. She knew him well enough to know when he needed someone to talk to, and she wanted to get to him before someone else did.

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"I need an honest assessment, Major," Adama said over the wireless.

Dee could hardly believe that the admiral was seriously considering sending in troops to deal with the hostage-takers on _Cloud Nine_. They'd looked into Sesha Abinell's record and discovered that she was a widow – her husband, Ray, had been killed in a cylon raid against the fleet – and Dee thought that maybe the Admiral was overreacting, that he was being too quick to send in troops when there was still the possibility of compromise.

"Admiral, bottom line is that if we go in there cold, some of the hostages are going to get killed," Rutger reported.

"How many?" Adama asked.

"Figure twenty percent, minimum," Rutger answered. "We need some kind of angle, or it's gonna be a bloodbath, sir."

Admiral Adama quickly gestured across his throat, and Dee cut off the line to Rutger's marines and turned her attention to unobtrusively eavesdropping.

"We can't negotiate with terrorists," Adama said, Baltar and Tigh standing at his side.

"And even if we normally might consider it, we certainly can't turn over Ms. Valerii," Baltar replied.

"_Ms. Valerii_ is a frakking machine," Tigh grumbled. "Given the fact that there are so few humans remaining that we can keep an accurate, minute-to-minute count, I don't think we should ignore the option of saving human lives by letting a few nutcases destroy our cylon hostage."

"Sharon's a military asset," Adama said. "We're not surrendering her."

"Absolutely not," Baltar agreed.

Tigh kept silent, allowing his resigned shrug and disapproving stare to speak for him. Dee found herself smiling at the scene, knowing that the president was completely unaware of the silent argument being waged by the admiral and his XO.

"So if we're not going to give them what the want…" Baltar prompted.

"We're going in," the admiral said.

"People are going to die if we do that," Baltar pointed out. "The Colonel made a valid point – there are few enough of us left as it is. Do we really want to help out the cylons in making humanity extinct?"

"If we wait, or bargain, or appear soft, we're only going to encourage more people to try taking hostages to make their point," Adama explained. "I don't care whether they're asking for the cylon or more hot meals," he added, clearly more for Tigh's benefit than Baltar's. "We don't negotiate with terrorists – we take them out. End of story."

"I don't know that I can give the go-ahead on a rescue attempt," Baltar said.

"I don't remember asking," Adama grunted.

Dee realized at that moment that she hadn't been the only one eavesdropping – time itself seemed to stop in C.I.C. as everyone stopped moving, and even breathing, as they waited to see what would happen next. She looked toward the entrance to C.I.C., half-hoping to see Lee walk in and fix the situation, to smooth over the conflicts between the military and civilian government the way he had so many times before. She ignored the fact that another reason she wanted him to come in was simply to have another chance to see him, to maybe make up in some small way for the fact that they'd been forced to cancel dinner on _Cloud Nine_ when the admiral temporarily suspended leave in order to get his newest pilots additional training runs and simulator time.

"If I could have a minute, Admiral," Baltar said, looking to Dee like he was clearly asking for Adama's indulgence rather than politely demanding a moment of privacy to chew him out, the way Roslin would have.

Adama nodded, and took a few steps away from Tigh, out of eavesdropping distance for everyone but Dee. And she took full, discrete advantage of the opportunity.

"Those are civilians in that café," Baltar began, "and--"

"This is a military decision," Adama said, cutting him off.

The president stood still for several moments, strangely appearing more as if he was listening to someone than as if he was getting his thoughts in order. "Those are civilians who've taken civilians hostage," Baltar finally countered. "I don't see how the military can claim authority here."

"It's a security matter," Adama replied simply.

"I don't seem to recall the military stepping in every time there was a security problem back in the Colonies," Baltar retorted, clearly hitting his stride in the conversation and becoming more aggressive. "I think you should stand down, at least until we make a token attempt at a non-violent resolution."

"The reason the military didn't get involved in these situations back in the Colonies is because there was a civilian police force," the admiral said. "We don't have a police force here; we only have military. There's no other option if you want to end this."

"And I'm not ruling out a military solution," Baltar hissed. "I'm simply stressing that we should try something else, first."

"Mr. President," Adama said through gritted teeth, obviously trying to sound patient, "every minute we wait will simply encourage others to take hostages every time they want to get our attention. We've already had cylon sympathizers sabotage our ammunition stores, almost killing one of my best pilots, and detonate a bomb on one of our most strategically important ships. What do you think they're going to do if we let them think the idea of taking hostages might get them somewhere? The woman doing this today is simply a grieving widow; how long will it be before some rabble-rouser starts using this as a recruiting ploy?"

"I understand your concerns, Admiral, but what if they're just looking to be heard? Do we really want to kill more of our people when there's no evidence at all that these hostage-takers are willing to get violent?"

A burst of chatter over the wireless distracted Dee, and she gasped as she turned to the Admiral. "Sir, you have to hear this," she said. Adama walked back over to Tigh and picked up the wireless, Baltar and Tigh listening in with him.

"You haven't given me an answer, Adama," Abinell said.

"There's been some debate regarding your demands," Adama admitted.

"Then let me give you incentive to speed you along," she replied. "I have Colonel Tigh's wife over here."

Dee heard the XO gasp; when she looked at Tigh, she saw that he was white as a sheet.

"Saul?" Ellen asked, her voice coming in over the wireless. "Bill? Just give them what they want." Several moments passed before Adama replied.

"All right," the admiral said, his shoulders going rigid, displaying none of the defeat that was in his voice. "You can have the cylon. We'll need time to secure her for transport and bring her over there."

"You have thirty minutes," Abinell said.

"I need forty-five," Adama answered. "I'm not risking my crew's safety by taking her out of her cell until I can be certain she has no chance of escaping and getting anyone killed."

"Fine. Forty-five," Abinell relented. "And don't try anything, Admiral. We'll be ready if you double-cross us."

"Of course," Adama said.

Adama glanced at Dee, again giving her the signal to cut off the line.

"I thought you said we can't negotiate," Baltar said immediately.

"Get me Rutger," Adama said, ignoring the president's comment.

"Yes, sir?" Rutger asked.

"It's a go," Adama ordered.

"Confirm go," Rutger responded, making certain he followed protocol.

"Go," the admiral repeated.

The line went dead, and the tension in C.I.C. seemed to take on a life of its own. Finally, Adama said, "I'm sorry, Saul. I know this isn't the way you would choose to do this, not with Ellen in there." Tigh only nodded in reply.

"I did _not_ authorize an assault," Baltar spat, not bothering to keep his voice down. Now it wasn't only Dee who could listen in on the three men.

"That was a military decision," Adama said simply.

"The hell it was," Baltar replied. "This was not a situation where the military--"

"She grabbed a hostage who had value to my XO," Adama growled. "That was going to cloud the issue, and from the tone in Ellen's voice, I have no doubt she believed they were capable of shooting hostages. So I let them believe they were about to get what they wanted, and that'll make them relax for a few moments."

"And even more so since they think your arrival is forty-five minutes away," Baltar said, much calmer, now understanding Adama's ploy. "You made certain that you bargained for time, doubtlessly making them think that you needed an extra fifteen minutes to get troops in place in case you were going to double-cross them. And when you hit them seconds later, instead…"

"It'll give us out best chance," Adama said. "It's the angle Rutger was looking for."

"Admiral, it's over," Dee said, hearing Rutger report in over the wireless.

Adama, Tigh, and Baltar all listened as Rutger's voice came through. "The room is secure, sir," he said.

"Losses?" Adama asked.

"I have two men down," Rutger said, "one of them KIA. Gunny should be okay, though; he only took one in the leg. Abinell and her people are all dead, and we lost two hostages, with four others wounded. Mrs. Tigh is okay, though."

Colonel Tigh let out an audible sigh of relief, but Dee's attention was more focused on the tired, defeated expression that passed over Adama's face for a brief moment before he regained his composure. Baltar, though, kept staring at Adama, his face unreadable.

"That could have gone better, Admiral," the president finally said.

"And it could have gone worse," Adama pointed out.

"Seven people are dead, and several more wounded."

"And the situation has been resolved," Adama countered. "Our jobs are to keep the people alive long enough to find a place where we can make a new life. The fact is that not everyone will make it, and every day we wake up knowing that we may have to make decisions that will get some people killed. That's the job."

"And I suppose you're fine with condemning two innocent people to death?"

"We killed the hostage-takers and clearly showed that we won't shy away from using force if civilians are in the way. Not even if those civilians are family members," he said, directing a sympathetic nod toward his XO. We don't negotiate with terrorists; it's that simple. And if getting those two innocent people killed helps keep dozens more from being used as tools by other terrorists, then so be it. I'll be able to sleep at night."

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"Hey, Ares!" Starbuck called from the bottom of the _Chimera's_ lowered hatch.

"What the hell do you want now?" Ares yelled out, his slightly slurred speech punctuated with a hearty laugh. That was enough to confirm Starbuck's suspicions – Ares was holding out on her.

"Permission to come aboard," Starbuck said as she walked up the stairs and into the ship's common area. At the top of the stairs, she found Ares sitting with his feet up on a table, a bottle of beer in his left hand as he tossed cards onto the table with his right. "Solitaire?" Starbuck asked.

"No, a game called high-low," Ares answered. "It's a drinking game."

"And you're all alone."

"Not anymore," he pointed out. "So how about you grab a beer and join me?"

"That looks like real beer," Starbuck commented.

"That it does," Ares agreed, holding the clear bottle up to the light, gazing at the deep brown color and the scattered bubbles racing toward the foamy surface.

"Is it real?"

"Yup."

"Where'd you get it?" Starbuck asked. Apollo had told her about some of the wonders of the black market – all of which she had thus far been too busy to enjoy for herself – but she hadn't dared to think anyone still had genuine beer. It'd been over six months since the Colonies had been destroyed.

"This is some of the last of my personal stash," Ares admitted. "And I'd be quite honored if you joined me."

"Well, with an invitation like that, how could I say no?"

"A woman after my own heart," Ares said with a smile, gesturing toward a dark gray box half-concealed in a hatch hidden behind a false wall.

Starbuck couldn't help but wonder how many other false walls were on the ship, or what Ares had used them for before the war. "I was wondering if you could help me with something," she said, trying to keep her brain focused on the task at hand.

"Shoot."

"This is strictly classified," she warned him. "What I'm about to tell you can't go any further than this ship."

"Of course," he said with an impatient wave. "I'm the very soul of discretion. So spill."

"I'm serious," Starbuck said.

"So am I," Ares countered. "I mean, have I even once called you to task about the way you feel about Apollo?"

"What?"

"And have I sat you down and asked you why you keep dwelling on your idealized image of that pyramid player back on Caprica?"

"How the frak--"

"I've been around," Ares interrupted. "I've been serving with soldiers and pilots for years, and I know how it is. You think you need something waiting for you when the war is over and you get to hang up your guns. Despite how you feel about Apollo, you can't imagine yourself ever settling down with anyone who's seen you do the things you've done, seen you kill and watch friends be killed. You need the comfortable dream of settling down with someone who won't remind you of the war every time you look at him across the kitchen table. Of course, that's not even considering the fact that he's Zak's--"

"Enough," Starbuck growled. "Another word, and you can forget I ever came by."

"Well my point is that because I'm so discrete and trustworthy, you'd never hear me talking about that stuff."

"I just did," Starbuck pointed out.

"I mean with other people," Ares said, grinning as he chugged the rest of his beer.

"I'm gonna kill Helo," Starbuck muttered.

"What, you talk to him about all that?" Ares guessed.

"He's the _only_ one I talked to, so I know that's where you heard it."

"Hey, he never told me a word," Ares assured her. "And to tell the truth, I'm very hurt that you didn't think to confide in your good buddy Ares. I told you, Starbuck – I've been around. Besides, you think it's any coincidence that Apollo was doing the same thing as you?"

"Huh?"

"Yeah, he had a girl on _Cloud Nine_," Ares explained. "Someone he could spend time with, someone who could pretend he was a normal guy. With her he didn't have to be the CAG, he didn't have to be the Admiral's son, and he sure as hell never had to explain to her – or himself – how he could do some of the things he's done. It's natural. We're soldiers, and we all do what we do, but it dirties us in a way."

"Remind me never to drink beers with you again, okay? I'm not into the whole 'Drunken Philosophy by Ares' spiel you have going on."

"Fine," Ares said, walking over to grab another beer. "So what is it you want?"

"Umm, yeah, right," Starbuck replied, trying to get her mind back on track. Between having Ares explain to her his thoughts on all of her deepest wishes, and then proceed directly into an account of some girlfriend she didn't even know Apollo had – _and why the hell does that bother me so much?_ she wondered – she was thrown thoroughly off-balance. "I wanted to, umm… I wanted to ask for your input on something."

"Something super top secret," Ares said in a hushed tone, a comical look on his face as he made a big production of searching every shadow for eavesdroppers.

"Yeah, and since you were a pilot and an operator, I--"

"Ooh, someone's planning an op," Ares interrupted, now sitting up eagerly as he absently twisted the top off his beer.

"Yeah," Starbuck confirmed. "And other than me, the admiral, the colonel, and now you, no one knows."

"Not even Apollo?"

"Not even Apollo," Starbuck confirmed.

"Then this is gonna be fun," Ares said. "Fill me in."

-------------------------------------------------

_He's way overdue,_ Dee realized, looking once again at the flight record for Raptor 492. Lee and Racetrack had left with some nuggets twenty-eight hours earlier on a twenty-two hour training flight, and the only comfort Dee had was that she knew she was now not the only one worried. Two other Raptors had been launched to search for Lee and his two pairs of nuggets, but all they'd found was empty space where Lee should have been.

_It should have been Starbuck out there,_ Dee thought, surprised that the idea could even cross her mind. Starbuck was Lee's friend; he would never understand Dee contemplating such things. _In fact, if Lee was able to know in advance that something was going to go wrong, it would have been him, and not the admiral, who reassigned the flight at the last minute,_ Dee knew.

"DRADIS contact," Gaeta's voice announced. "It's our lost Raptor, admiral."

"Dee?' Adama asked, gazing in her direction. A moment later, Racetrack's voice came over the wireless. Dee put it through over the speakers.

"This is Raptor 492," Racetrack reported. "I'm declaring an immediate emergency and requesting priority approach – I need the flight deck cleared." No sooner had she said the words than Tigh was on the line to the deck, making sure the crews were safely out of the way.

_Billy's on shift right now,_ Dee remembered. _I hope someone is down there with him; he's not ready to handle an emergency landing yet._

"What's your flight status?" Adama asked Racetrack.

"I'll report after landing, sir," she answered anxiously. "I can hardly keep it under control."

"Oh, gods," Gaeta muttered. Dee looked in his direction, where he was magnifying an image of the returning Raptor. The ship had obviously been in a heavy firefight – its hull was blackened and scored from weapons fire, with the left wing cleanly blown off and enough shotglass-sized holes to make Dee marvel that the Raptor was still operational.

It was then that Dee realized two important facts. First, the muffled sound of Racetrack's voice indicated that she was sealed up in her flight suit, which meant that the Raptor was either depressurized or in danger of becoming so. From the way the ship looked, Dee was willing to bet it was the former. Second, it was Racetrack, and not Lee, on the wireless. That would have been reasonable if Lee was flying and Racetrack was freeing up his hands by handling communications on the wireless, but from what Racetrack said, it sounded like she was flying as well as speaking. _What the hell happened out there?_

"Put me on with actual," Racetrack said.

"Admiral," Dee prompted.

Adama picked up the line, and Dee took the liberty of listening in. By the time Racetrack had finished speaking, both Dee and the admiral looked like they'd been punched in the gut.

_To be continued……………………………_


	6. Religion and Politics

Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**Author's Note:** I want to cite _Babylon 5_ as the source for one of Tabitha Donner's lines. I kept trying to come up with a way for her to explain her point of view, and my brain kept coming back to a line spoken by Majel Barrett in a guest spot. It's the bit about greatness, and J. Michael Straczynski wrote it better than I ever could.

Quick thanks to **Raina** for pointing out my error in the last chapter. I've consistently mixed up Crashdown and Racetrack in my head, and I don't know why. But anyway, it's been fixed.

Also, big thanks to **Elentari2** for beta reading for me. This chapter practically sucked the very soul out of me before she came to my rescue.

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**VI – Religion and Politics**

Doreah gazed over the top of her teacup at Tabitha Donner, inhaling the warm scent of cinnamon as she tried to take the measure of the woman. When the novelist had first come to her with her manuscript, asking her opinion about the biography of Laura Roslin and the tale of humanity's flight from the shattered Colonies, the Sibyl thought it was because Donner hoped for a high-profile endorsement.

Doreah smiled at that thought, despite herself. When the Colonies were destroyed she had, in truth, been barely more than an acolyte – she had only taken her final vows a few months before the cylons destroyed everything she knew, including her home in the Oracle of Lydia. She spent weeks, and then months, hiding from her fellow refugees, fearing their suspicions that she was false, that a true Sibyl would have foreseen the impending doom and warned her people. Her only comfort was the knowledge that the masses weren't privy to the mysteries of the Oracles; Doreah knew that she would never have been able to explain that prophecy is impossible unless the gods want their people to know something in advance. _If the gods wish to test our faith, they won't warn us that we should prepare ourselves. Our hardships are made that much tougher **because** we had no idea that judgment was upon us._

The situation changed, though, when Doreah heard a chance conversation and had come to realize that Tom Zarek was the Condemned Man of Pythia's prophecies. Since that moment she had built a following, slowly at first, but now increasingly quickly, like a snowball rolling down a hill. Now when she spoke, people listened; and now, rather than suspicion, she earned gifts and donations as people sought the favor of the last surviving Oracle. _It would have taken me a lifetime to earn the title of Oracle before the attacks,_ Doreah reminded herself. _But instead, I had the honor fall into my lap by default when no one else could help guide the people. It's my responsibility to show them the way through the wilderness._ And that brought her back to Tabitha Donner.

"Your work had a certain air of… inspiration," Doreah commented.

"I'm flattered," Donner replied.

"I'm not certain it was meant as a compliment," the Sibyl returned. It hadn't taken her long to notice how several sections of Donner's book resembled some of Pythia's prophecies. The language was certainly different, and Donner did not indulge in constant, ambiguous references to vague imagery, but there was a definite feel to the text, something she could not actually describe. To her amusement, she was reminded of something Tom Zarek had said when he was asked to define tyranny and why the word should be applied to the democratic Colonial government. _He said he couldn't necessarily define tyranny, but he knew it when he saw it,_ Doreah remembered. _Donner's book is the same – I can't necessarily define the elements of a religious text, but I certainly know one when I see one. Now the question is whether she's a con artist or genuinely, divinely inspired._ The fact that she even needed to consider the question was unsettling; Doreah had asked around, trying to find people who knew Donner – or at least knew of her – and no one seemed to have any inkling that Tabitha Donner was in any way devout. _But then again, the gods' trials have changed us all in unforeseen ways._

"Have I done something to offend you?" Donner asked.

Doreah was disappointed in herself. _I know better than to let someone read me that easily._ "Of course not," she assured the writer. "I admit I haven't read any of your other work, but I think it unlikely that it's much like that," she said, pointing to a datapad. The rare, increasingly valuable datapad had been a gift from a spice merchant who wanted a reading, just one of many trappings of luxury and wealth she had received recently.

"This book was biographical," Donner noted. "I used to be a novelist."

"And it shows in your style," Doreah replied. "Your story reads like an epic poem."

"As it should," Donner said. "Humanity was all but wiped out, a massive, unprovoked attack destroying worlds and forcing a handful of survivors into a prophesied flight toward their lost brethren. It's epic in every sense of the word."

"It's not epic," Doreah objected. "It's our life. I don't believe the tone of your writing is correct."

"This is a matter of perception," Donner countered. "I once heard that greatness is never appreciated in youth, called pride in middle age, dismissed in old age, and reconsidered only after death. An appreciation for one's times is much the same," she explained. "We who live in these times are the ones least able to judge what's going on. Our people will one day look back on this time with the wisdom of hindsight, the same way we look back on our forefathers' flight from Kobol. These days – our lives – will one day become legendary."

"That's not something I'd considered," Doreah admitted.

"I'm not surprised," Donner said. "It's hard to imagine that people will spend their lives dreaming about what it must have been like for us, romanticizing the struggle without ever contemplating the constant, intolerable hardships we face. But it's natural that much of the bad will be forgotten or overlooked. No one will dwell upon the fears of mothers who didn't have medicine for their newborns, soldiers who woke up every day wondering if they'd live long enough to climb back into bed that night, or people who started to lose faith in the gods."

"No one will lose faith in the gods," Doreah said confidently. "Our faith is being tested, but we'll be made stronger for it in the end."

"Of course," Donner said.

Had Donner's tone been different, Doreah would have been convinced that the author was patronizing her. But there was certainty in Donner's voice, a conviction that even gave Doreah a flash of hope and optimism. _She's no con artist,_ the Sibyl decided. _I don't know yet if there's any divine inspiration at work here, but she's certainly not just using this book to increase her own celebrity._

"So," Doreah finally replied, "would you like to hear my thoughts about your final chapter?"

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Tom Zarek leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath in anticipation of the carefully orchestrated scene that was about to play out in front of him in the Quorum Hall. _I've waited years for this day,_ he reminded himself, watching his fellow members of the Quorum of Twelve settle in, waiting for President Baltar to commence the proceedings. _Years spent blindly clawing at power on Sagitarron, more years rotting in a Colonial cell, and months here in this gods-forsaken fleet, waiting for Roslin to die so that my turn could finally come. And now… now it's my time._

Zarek did not dwell on the fact that as long as he'd already waited, he had expected to wait even longer. Roslin's death had come sooner than expected, and Tabotha Donner had reportedly flown through her book. Donner's publishing date was now only days away, and that meant Zarek knew it was time to make his move. _Strike while the iron is hot,_ he often reminded himself. Sibyl Doreah had told him that the forthcoming book did not shy away from referring to Roslin as an object of prophecy. _And if Roslin was our great leader, then it's now time for the Condemned Man. It's time for me._

"I suppose I'll get us started with a request from the admiral," Baltar said. "Apparently, one of our Raptors has located an asteroid field that may yield a large amount of raw materials needed by the fleet. Granted, we're not exactly blessed with a large number of production facilities, but it is Admiral Adama's opinion – and I happen to agree – that a short delay now could serve us well in allowing us not to have to stop again in the foreseeable future."

"It's funny you should use that word," Sarah Porter, the Geminon representative, said. She leaned forward against the table, her eyes boring in Baltar's.

"What word is that?" the president asked.

"Blessed," Porter responded. "I thought you a man of science, Doctor."

"Yes," Baltar replied, a trace of a sneer passing across his face.

Zarek fought back a grin – in the short time he had been president, Gaius Baltar had already demonstrated a strong distaste for people not addressing him by his new title. _Even when the alternative is to refer to him as Doctor._

"And now you speak of blessings," Porter said.

"I meant it as a figure of speech," Baltar explained.

"And is that all blessings are to you?" the woman pressed. "Clichés that amount to nothing more than poetic fodder for conversation?"

"I assure you I meant nothing by it," Baltar stammered, obviously taken completely off-guard by Porter's verbal assault.

"I know you didn't," Porter assured him, "and that's what makes it worse."

"I don't follow," the president admitted.

"You're a man of science," Porter explained. "In fact, you're a brilliant man, with a great deal of responsibility. The Quorum has already expressed to you our reservations about you splitting time between your lab and Colonial One. But there's a concern that my people, particularly, have about your administration."

"I see," Baltar said, nodding slightly. He waited a beat, and added, "You don't think a man who doesn't wear his faith on his sleeve is an appropriate leader during a crisis."

"This isn't simply a crisis," Porter retorted. "This is the end of a cycle of history, as foretold by Pythia. My people believe in the prophecies contained in the Sacred Scrolls, we believe in the vision that has been passed down from generation to generation. While the rest of the tribes of man continue to give lip service to prophecy, or struggle to argue that the prophecies don't fit, we Geminons use our eyes, and our hearts, and our minds. We see, feel, and know that prophecy is upon us, whether you accept that or not."

"I'm not here to debate faith," Baltar said, clearly knowing that was not a conversation he could ever win.

"And neither am I," Porter replied.

"I think maybe we can move past this situation easily enough," Marshall Bagot interrupted, addressing not only his fellow representatives on the Quorum, but also the assembled members of the media. "There are, indeed, many who would prefer a more… devout man as our president," he added, impressing Zarek with the way he effortlessly appeared to be choosing his words carefully, despite the fact that he was reciting from a script that had been written and memorized days earlier. "But there are also many who are comforted by President Baltar's unambiguously secular leanings. We have to remember that our government calls for the majority to rule, and that majority did so, through the Quorum, when it approved President Roslin's chosen candidate for the office of Vice President. I don't think anyone here should question President Baltar's authority," he said, directing his pre-canned comments to Sarah Porter.

"However, that being said," Bagot continued, "I think that Ms. Porter's concerns are valid. There are a great many in the fleet who are devoted to their religion, who see wisdom, guidance and hope in the prophecies. With President Roslin gone, those people lack a voice in the executive administration. Therefore, I feel that while President Baltar is correct in continuing to delay elections until all of the logistical problems have been addressed, I think it's only appropriate that we deal with the problematic void in one branch of our government – namely, the lack of a vice-president."

Baltar wasted no time in voicing his opposition to that idea. "Going through the motions of naming a new vice president--"

"Going through the motions?" Porter interjected. "Is that all you think it is, like this is some kind of game, or just a way of satisfying the people you probably think of as religious zealots?"

"I never said anything of the kind," Baltar told her. "I'm simply referring to the inordinate amount of time and energy that such a process would demand, energy that would be better spent organizing elections for every office, including not only the vice-presidency, but also the presidency and all of the seats on the Quorum of Twelve."

"Well, I would like to nominate Tom Zarek for the office of vice-president," Bagot said.

"Interesting," Sarah Porter commented, immediately drawing Zarek's attention. 'Interesting' was not what she was supposed to have said.

"Is that a second on the motion?" Bagot asked, awkwardly transparent in his attempt to prompt the planned response from the Geminon representative.

"No, it's not," Porter replied, leaning back slightly, taking in a view of the room.

Zarek wanted to say something, to try to get Porter under control, but he dared not move a muscle. The meeting had been carefully planned to keep his hands clean, to make it appear as if he had nothing to do with getting himself nominated. He knew that it would be obvious to anyone who was in the room, but that subtext would likely be lost in radio and written reports that would be relayed to the masses.

"I have the utmost respect for Dr. Baltar's accomplishments," Porter commented. "I know that President Roslin had a great deal of trust in him, and that she had fully planned to have him follow in her footsteps. But my people have read Pythia's prophecies. We know that the will of the gods must be respected, and Pythia made it clear that the gods planned to have the Condemned Man succeed the leader of the caravan of the heavens. As brilliant as Dr. Baltar may be, his position as the president is an affront to the will of the gods. I will not second Tom Zarek's nomination for the office of vice-president. It's clear to me and my people that Tom Zarek is the Condemned Man, and I'm thus forced to nominate Tom Zarek for president, and for Tom Zarek to immediately assume the office in place of Gaius Baltar."

There was an instantaneous reaction – every member of the Quorum of Twelve – save one – started shouting, wireless correspondents were screaming into their microphones, and newspaper reporters were scribbling away on their notepads, trying to record every word from every person, all at once. Tom Zarek sat alone in the eye of this storm of noise and action, appearing as unperturbed as he would had everything gone to plan.

To Zarek's surprise, Baltar seemed uninterested in the things that were happening around him. The president was leaning forward against the table, his head in his hands, nodding slightly from time to time, almost as if he was listening to someone who was speaking directly into his ear. The president's simultaneous composure and distraction threw Zarek slightly off-guard.

_But I can't pass up this unexpected opportunity just because I can' get a read on Baltar,_ he decided, resolving to consider the sudden possibilities. _Though we can't have chaos. This has to get done as orderly as possible, so no one can legitimately question the result._ "Ladies and gentlemen," Zarek said evenly, knowing that only those sitting right next to him would hear him. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said a little more loudly, gaining the attention of a few others. Those who started to pay attention to him were now getting the attention of others, and the room was finally coming under Zarek's sway. Enough so that complete silence descended upon the room when he said a third time, "Ladies and gentlemen," hardly any louder than he had the second time. "I don't think this is something we want to rush into," he said smoothly.

President Baltar was launching mental daggers from his eyes, but his attempts at intimidating Tom Zarek were less than successful. _I spent years in a maximum-security prison, dealing with gangs, shower-room rapists, abusive guards, and the occasional well thought out assassination attempt. No way is some pencil-pushing scientist ever going to bully me._

"While I appreciate the sentiment, I think that maybe your motion is premature," Zarek told Sarah Porter. "I know that President Baltar has floated the idea of some restructuring of the government, hoping to create something that more efficiently serves our decreased population. While I may not agree with everything he's said, I do agree that unless we make changes to the very fabric of our government, it is wholly inappropriate to make a motion to remove a sitting president without cause."

"I didn't make the motion without cause," Prter objected. "The Sacred Scrolls tell us that--"

"I know what the Scrolls say," Zarek interrupted, surprised that Baltar had not yet tried to intervene in the situation. _Maybe he expects me to be careless,_ Zarek considered. _Maybe he noticed that this isn't how we planned things, and he knows I'm in damage control mode, and he expects me to say enough to hang myself. And he's going to give me all the rope I need._ "I fully appreciate the wisdom of the Scrolls, and I know how tempting it is to cling to your faith in a crisis. I'll admit I've spent a good bit of my own time reading from the Scrolls; but that doesn't mean that our religious faith should lead us to carry out what many would consider a coup."

"I never said that I was--"

"I know," Zarek said, cutting off Porter again. "You would never do anything like that. But our government does not provide for the action you seek to take. The power of the president must be respected at all times, whether you agree with him or not, whether you think someone else should be in the office or not. We need order. Without it, we're simply lambs being led to slaughter on the altars of our enemies."

"Well said," Baltar agreed.

"So I would move that we table all pending motions and adjourn for some time to reflect on what's been said here," Zarek said.

"Seconded," Baltar agreed.

A quick vote later, everyone left the Quorum Hall, and Tom Zarek was absolutely giddy with the possibilities that had appeared before him.

-------------------------------------------------

"Ellen," Captain Kelly stammered as soon as he saw his guest standing at the entrance to his quarters, leaning casually against the doorframe. "I wasn't expecting you."

Ellen Tigh was satisfied that she'd accomplished her goal of taking the young commanding officer completely off-guard. Captain Kelly was intelligent and hard working, but he was what Ellen and many of her friends commonly referred to as "book smart." He knew what he needed to know to excel in his chosen field, but he lacked common sense and the social skills that one could gain only by putting the books away and going out to see the real world. Denied time to think though the reason for her visit, without a chance to come up with a way to get her off his ship as quickly as possible, Ellen was certain she would be more than a match for poor Captain Kelly.

"I was hoping to surprise you," Ellen purred, closing the door and walking up to Kelly, wrapping him in a loose embrace. "Don't you like having me around?"

"You're Colonel Tigh's wife," the captain pointed out. "People are going to talk."

"No they won't," she assured him. "By the time I leave, everyone will think I was here on my husband's orders, trying to spy on Lieutenant Turk."

"Why will they think that?"

"Because that's what I want them to think," Ellen said.

"So, why _are_ you here?"

"Can't it just be because I wanted to see you?"

"Sure it could," Kelly answered. "As long as we're willing to lie to each other."

"Fine," Ellen said, thinking that maybe she had misjudged the man in front of her. _Perhaps he isn't as malleable as I'd hoped._ "I was hoping you could tell me what Bill is up to."

"What do you mean?" the captain asked far too quickly.

Ellen allowed herself a sigh of relief. "I mean exactly what I said," she cooed, amazed at how transparent the man in front of her suddenly was, his brief moment of uncharacteristic poise already a mere memory.

"The admiral isn't up to anything."

"Sure he is. I've been a military wife for years, captain. I'd like to know if Bill and my husband are planning something that could get them killed. Saul has always been a little too willing to rush in where Heracles himself would be afraid to tread, all at the request of his old friend, Bill. And what with Bill losing Lee… well, I don't know that I can trust his judgment right now, and I'm not going to stand aside and let them make me a widow."

"I have no idea what you mean," Kelly insisted, his eyes practically advertising in bright lights his desperation for a new way to deny any knowledge of the admiral's plans. "I haven't heard anything."

"I thought we were friends," Ellen pouted. "I was hoping you would do me this one favor."

"I can't tell you what I don't know," Kelly responded. "I mean, I can't tell you about something that doesn't exist. That is, I--"

"Look, let's stop the games," Ellen interrupted curtly. "I know Admiral Adama has filled you in on his plans, and like I said, I like knowing what's going on. My husband has been working 20-hour shifts and I haven't seen him. I hoped I could come to you for help."

"I can't discuss it," Kelly said, giving up on his denials and switching to the alternate strategy of refusing to say what he knew. It was the beginning of the end, as far as Ellen was concerned.

"Can't? Or won't?" she asked.

"Can't. It's classified and compartmentalized, ma'am. I doubt I even know everything that the admiral is planning."

"Then if you don't even know the whole story, what's the harm in talking?"

"It's a matter of fleet security. It's that simple."

"Oh, so you think that maybe I'm a cylon?" Ellen asked. "Is that what you're implying?"

"No, ma'am," Kelly said, again thrown off-balance.

"You think Bill and Saul would let me anywhere near their dinner table if they ever thought for a second that I'm a cylon?" Ellen snapped, starting her final push.

"That's not what I meant."

"Or is it maybe that you think I'm going to go all over the fleet, talking about whatever it is you're not supposed to tell?"

"It's really not like that at all, it's just--"

"That you either don't trust me or that you aren't really my friend."

"That's not what I'm saying," Kelly protested.

"That's good to hear," Ellen said. "Because I'd hate to think that we did… what we did… if we're not friends." Kelly went several shades of white, and Ellen decided that this was the perfect time to turn the knife. "Because if we're not friends, then that must mean that you used me."

"I never--"

"I know," Ellen interrupted immediately. "Because no one in his right mind is going to brazenly take advantage of Colonel Tigh's wife. I mean, if something like that got out, it could mean your career." She gazed at Kelly with innocent eyes, indifferent to the fact that all he saw was the manipulative snake behind the mask. Because along with a healthy dose of disgust and hatred, there was also a liberal helping of fear in Kelly's expression. Ellen Tigh knew that she had once again managed to get what she wanted.

_To be continued……………………………_


	7. Adjusting Plans

Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**Author's Note:** As a note on chronology, the first scene of this chapter actually takes place before the last scene of Chapter 6. The two were switched around so that each would fit better with the rest of the chapter in which they were found. It's really not that big a thing, but it's noticeable if (like me) you're one of those picky people who spot lots of little details.

Thanks to **Brynn McK** for her help as a beta.

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**VII – Adjusting Plans**

"Starbuck, have a seat," the Admiral said, gesturing to a chair as sat down, himself.

"Not that I suspect an ulterior motive, but why did you call me in, Sir?" she asked with a smile, reenacting the meeting they'd had the last time she visited the Old Man's quarters. He looked tired, even old, and she wanted to do something to help lift his mood before he assigned her another important mission.

"I… I have some news," Adama said awkwardly. "I'm not entirely sure how…" He leaned forward, his face in his hands, and remained silent for several minutes.

"Admiral?" Starbuck finally asked. She had never seen him like this, and truth be told, she was getting concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Lee's dead," Adama replied without ever looking up.

"Ahhh…" The sound came from Starbuck's mouth, but she hadn't realized she was trying to speak. She didn't even know what to say. _No._ It was the only thought that she seemed able to form in her mind. _No. This isn't happening. I won't let it._ "Ahhh…"

"Are you okay?" Adama asked. Starbuck couldn't help but notice that the Old Man still wasn't looking at her, that he was clearly making an attempt to avoid eye contact.

"What?" she asked, looking away, herself, hoping to avoid the mutual embarrassment of catching the admiral with tears in his eyes. _Am **I** okay? Me? Lee's your son, and you're asking if **I'm** okay?_ The words raced through her head, but she was unable to speak them.

"Are you okay, Kara?" the Admiral asked again.

In the process of deciding whether or not she was, in fact, all right, she realized she could hardly breathe. Tears were rapidly soaking her face, and she felt like several pairs of socks were firmly lodged in her throat. _Not that that's necessarily a bad thing – after all, if my throat is so cramped up that I can't swallow, then I probably won't be able to hurl my lunch all over the Old Man's lap, either._

"I… Admiral…" she stammered.

"It's all right," he said, crossing to kneel in front of her, grasping her in his arms and holding her close. "It's okay, Kara. It'll all be okay. I promise."

"But…"

"Shhh…"

Kara had just about regained her composure when some cruel, sadistic voice in the back of her head pointed out that this was probably the same exact way Bill Adama had comforted Lee when he was a kid and got hurt. _And Zak, too,_ she realized miserably.

"Admiral," Kara said, mumbling her words against Adama's shoulder. "What happened? I mean, how…"

"It was while he was of on the training flight," Adama answered. "Lee decided to take them into uncharted space to see how the nuggets would do, and somewhere out there they picked up a distress signal…"

"A cylon trap?" Kara guessed. "I can't believe Lee would fall for something like that."

"He didn't," Adama assured her. "He made sure it was genuine, and then they responded. It was an old freighter that had run after the cylon attack, the same as we did. The cylons finally tracked it down and hit it hard, but the crew managed to make one final jump before their FTL drive blew out. From what Racetrack told me, the ship was barely holding together. Lee and the rest of the team went aboard to try to get the engines up and running long enough to get them back here. Racetrack stayed with the Raptor, but it was unarmed. When the cylons found the freighter…"

Starbuck nodded; she didn't need to hear the rest. _Lee and the team were probably cut off from the hangar bay, or the docking point, or wherever it was that Racetrack was waiting. And Lee being Lee, he told her to make a run for it. She would have objected, and then he would have said something like they needed her to go get help, or at least let everyone know that there were cylons in the area. And she would have wanted to stay, but she would have left. Because Lee has a knack for getting his way._

"I know how you must feel, Starbuck," Adama said. "But I need you to hold it together for a while longer. We still have a mission coming up."

_Oh, gods,_ Kara thought, struggling again to hold down her lunch when the realization hit her. "It should have been me," she said, drawing back and staring into the admiral's eyes. He did not seem the least bit surprised at her guilt, but there was no accusation in his eyes. "I was supposed to be the instructor on that training flight – the nuggets are my responsibility. I left it to Lee--"

"Because I ordered you to," the admiral interrupted. "That was my decision. I needed you here to work with Tigh and Ares, and that left Lee to do the training flight. Don't you dare blame yourself."

"It's my fault."

"Stow it, Lieutenant," Adama growled. "When this mission is over and done with, we can both sit here and try to one-up each other in claiming blame, but _only_ when it's over. Until then, I need your head screwed on straight. And I need a CAG."

"Kat's probably the best pilot down there right now," Kara said. "She has an attitude problem, but maybe some extra work will take the edge off that."

"I'm not interested in Kat as my CAG. It's got to be you, Starbuck." Adama gestured to his desk, where Starbuck noticed her new rank insignia waiting to be claimed. _Was that there the whole time?_ she wondered.

"I can't." _Lee's body is hardly cold… how could I step into his shoes as the CAG already?_ She almost giggled when she realized it was concern over propriety, rather than fear of the job, that had her hesitating. _It wouldn't have been that way only a few months ago._

"You can. And you will," he ordered. "Captain."

Starbuck looked into Adama's eyes and saw a shocking lack of emotion. No grief, no anger, no guilt. Only determination. _And if he can put off dealing with it, so can I,_ she told herself.

"Yes, sir," Starbuck mumbled, ignoring the taste of fresh tears on her lips. "You can count on me."

"I know I can, Kara," Adama assured her. "But we have to change the timetable for our mission."

"We can't be ready any sooner," Starbuck told him. "There's no way."

"No, we're pushing it back," Adama said. "We need more time."

"If this is because of me, don't worry," Starbuck said. "I can handle it, really. I--"

"No, this isn't about you," Adama replied. "I'm adding another wrinkle, and I need more time to get my pieces in place."

"What is it?"

"That's need to know, only," the admiral said, "and for this one part of the mission, you don't need to know. Don't worry about it, Kara."

"Yes, sir," she said, suddenly unable to think about anything but the one thing she wasn't supposed to worry about.

-------------------------------------------------

Ellen Tigh was barely out the door of the café when Tom Zarek caught sight of one of _Galactica's_ marines walk in through a different entrance, stopping just inside as he looked over the patrons. Tom knew better than to pass up such an opportunity. He walked straight over, making eye contact as soon as possible.

"Hello, marine," he said, extending his hand amiably. "Tom Zarek."

"I know who you are, Mr. Zarek," the marine replied with a firm handshake. "You're on the Quorum of Twelve."

"That's right. I couldn't help but notice that you seem to be looking for someone."

"Yes, sir."

"You don't have to 'sir' me," Zarek said with a well-rehearsed chuckle. He had watched countless men rot in prison while others went mad dreaming of vengeance or simply wasted time until their release, at which time they inevitably re-offended and started the cycle all over again. Tom had always thought himself one of the special few – the inmates who decided to make some kind of constructive use of their time. It wasn't necessarily about rehabilitation; Tom knew full well that many criminals were not at all interested in ever working a nine to five job that paid a pittance compared to what they could earn as a competent criminal working a fraction of the time. Instead, what had always interested him were the men and women who spent time learning something, whether it was a better way to steal a car, a new way to beat the authorities' forensic procedures, or some nuggets of legal wisdom that could help them squirm out of an otherwise certain conviction. Tom had spent most of his time in prison watching film of politicians, noting how the successful men and women spoke, how they smiled, how they carried themselves, even the hand gestures they used when trying to make a point. Tom Zarek had been blessed with years upon years of time to hone his skills, and he knew damn well that his smile, his chuckle, and his ingratiating manner were as well practiced and convincing as the greatest politicians'. And so he also knew that after only a few mere moments, he already had this marine enthralled.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Zarek," the marine said.

"Please, call me Tom. Can I get you a drink?" he asked, having already led the marine to the bar.

"I really shouldn't," the marine apologized. "I'm here on business."

"On _Cloud Nine_? What brings you over here, Major… Rutger?" he said, reading the marine's name from his uniform.

"It's not something I should talk about," Rutger said. Tom could see the respect in the man's eyes, but even if Ellen hadn't told him about this marine, he would be able to see the ingrained discipline there, too. _This one isn't going to speak too freely,_ Zarek knew. _I'll have to tread carefully._

"No, I know how official business is," Zarek agreed. "As you can imagine, I hear plenty of information I have to keep strictly confidential."

"Yes, sir," Rutger replied.

"So if you need to keep your message private, I won't pry. But if I can help you find who you're looking for," Tom prompted, noting with satisfaction that the bartender had just served them each a Sagitarron Sling.

"I'm looking for Mrs. Tigh. Captain Kelly asked me to bring her a message," Rutger explained.

"So you're looking for Ellen? That's too bad," Zarek said with a shrug. "You just missed her."

"Damn," Rutger muttered. "Do you know where she went, sir?"

"Pretty important, huh?"

"The Captain met with Colonel Tigh this morning, and I think that Tigh had the captain arrange to send me over here," Rutger responded. "He was probably too busy to track down Mrs. Tigh himself, but he'd definitely want… I mean, umm… I just have to find Mrs. Tigh, sir."

"Well, to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure where she is right now," Tom apologized. _A message from Kelly after he met with Tigh. I can't sit around waiting for the message to get to Ellen and then waste more time twiddling my thumbs until she finally delivers it to me. _If_ she delivers it to me._ "She mentioned she was going to the _Prometheus_ at some point, but I know she was also going to stop by a couple of other ships, first. If you want to wait around, she'll probably be back for dinner. I was going to meet her again then."

"I can't wait around that long," Rutger commented, taking a quick glance at his watch.

"If you give me the message, I can pass it on," Zarek offered.

"Like I said--"

"Major, I'm a member of the Quorum of Twelve," Tom interrupted. "I think you can count on my discretion. And certainly you're not implying you don't trust me."

"Of course not, sir."

"Then how about you leave the message with me," Tom suggested again. "I'll make sure I mention it to Ellen tonight at dinner. Consider it a small favor to help out the troops."

"Well… okay, sir," Rutger relented.

-------------------------------------------------

"That's not helping," Baltar griped as Six's hands stopped massaging his shoulders and began moving down his arms, all while she began to lightly kiss his earlobe.

"I'm helping you relax," she purred, her warm breath, smelling of strongly of lemon and ginger, sending chills down his spine.

"This is hardly the time!" Baltar objected, practically jumping out of his chair as he leveled an accusatory stare. "In case you hadn't noticed, I increasingly appear to be on the wrong end of a slow but inexorable popular coup."

"You're overreacting."

"You were in the Quorum meeting," he reminded her. "I thought I was going to get booted out of office right then and there."

"We bought time for people to cool down, Gaius."

"Cool down?" he shot back. "Is that what you think people are doing? That damned Donner woman just released her book. There aren't enough datapads to go around, so people are gathering in groups, reading it together a chapter at a time. They discuss it over meals, they write out their favorite chapters by hand to share with other friends. Our inability to provide enough copies for every man, woman, and child is causing people to meet and give her work cult-like treatment."

"I think you need a nap," Six commented casually, sitting down in the chair Baltar had vacated. "It's not as bad as you make it out to be."

"It may actually be worse," Baltar retorted, trying to ignore the fact that Six appeared to be paying more attention to a chipped fingernail than she was to his crisis. _How the hell does a hallucination chip a nail, anyway?_ "Donner makes no secret of her opinion that she thinks Roslin was the leader prophesied by Pythia," Baltar added.

"Yes."

"And among other things, she discusses Pythia's other prophecies, including the one about the Condemned Man."

"True. But she never names Zarek as the Condemned Man."

"She doesn't have to," Baltar argued. "Zarek's doing that himself."

"A man cannot name himself the object of prophecy," Six reasoned. "That can only be done by the people or by God."

"Well God has been strangely silent, and the people are all speaking Zarek's name."

"Today, perhaps," Six replied with a knowing smile.

"What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?" Baltar asked, fear rising in his gut.

"I recently heard about a conversation the admiral had with his cylon prisoner."

"Sharon," Baltar said. "Is she in danger?"

"If she – and our child – were in danger, I would have told you," Six assured him. "No, it seems the admiral is concerned about other cylons living unnoticed amongst the people."

"How many are there?" Baltar asked immediately.

"That's exactly what Adama asked. And Sharon actually told him."

"How many?" Baltar asked again.

"Eight," Six answered.

"That's what she told me, too," Baltar commented. "Of course, I have a hard time imagining that the admiral was quite as… forceful with his question."

"Of course not."

"And why are you telling me about this, anyway?" Baltar asked, trying to return the topic from its tangent.

"Because those eight cylons are out there commenting on how they remember you being thrown in the brig after those false accusations about being in league with the vile cylons," Six said. "You were condemned by everyone until the truth came out."

"Yes, the truth," Baltar muttered. _Of course, the truth is that I **was** involved, and exactly the way they said I was. It was the evidence, and not the accusation, that was false._

"So in time, people will start thinking about how the prophecies may already have come to pass," Six said. "So once again, you worry needlessly. You only need to have faith."

"The familiar refrain," Baltar responded with a frustrated sigh. "I don't suppose there's any way…" His voice trailed off as he looked around and saw that Six had disappeared once again. "I hate it when she does that."

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The light was painfully bright, whiter than any light she had ever seen in her life. It warmed her, and terrified her, and blinded her to the voice that spoke so soothingly. "You're awake," he said. Something about his voice reminded the woman of her grandfather, despite the fact that he had died over thirty years earlier.

"Where am I?"

"You're safe," he assured her.

"Where am I?" she asked again.

"What does the location matter if you know you're safe?" he asked.

The woman thought about that for a long time. Minutes, hours, days… she could not say how long she contemplated the question. She knew that the answer should matter, that it was something that would have mattered not long ago, but for the time being she found it difficult to explain why it had mattered then, to say nothing of why it should matter now. The old man seemed to sense her confusion.

"Your home was destroyed," the man reminded her. The woman felt a flash of fear, of panic, but it passed. That was all she could muster in response to his statement. She could not remember her home or its destruction, but she could feel that what he said was true. She knew she was feeling the memory of the loss of her home, even if she could not specifically remember the loss – or the home – itself.

"So where am I now?"

"Do you still think it matters?"

"No."

"You're lying to me," he said, his voice holding no hint of malice. Once more he reminded the woman of her grandfather. She was struck by a memory of her fifth birthday, when she had woken up early and opened her gifts before her parents were awake. Her grandfather had walked into the room first, and he had asked her how she thought her parents would feel when they woke up to find that she had opened her gifts without them. The old man sounded like that now, his voice a soft rebuke rather than a cold, hard condemnation. "Why do you think it matters where you are?"

"I don't know," the woman answered. She was sure of little else, but she knew that was true. It struck her as odd that the only thing she knew was that she did not know why it mattered where she was.

"Would you like to know where you are?" the man asked

"Yes," the woman answered without hesitation.

"If I tell you, do you promise that you will stay here with me?"

Again the woman was forced to ponder the question. She did not know how to answer; there could be any number of reasons to leave, to flee, and any number of other reasons to stay. His answer would determine what she would want, and she did not feel she should make a promise without knowing her circumstances. "I can't promise that," she finally answered.

"So you no longer wish to know where you are?"

"I don't wish to lie to gain that information." She found it very important that she not lie to this man who reminded her of her grandfather. She had never lied to her grandfather, though she had certainly lied countless times to others.

"You have principles?"

"I don't know." Again, that was the only truthful answer she could give. She tried to think of some hint as to what her principles were. It was then that she realized she not only could not remember her own principles, she could also not remember her own name. Or the names of any of the countless people she had lied to after having been so truthful with her grandfather.

"There seems to be a great deal you don't know."

"Yes."

"So I will give you an answer," the old man said. "I will tell you where you are."

"Thank you."

"Do not thank me," he said, his voice still warm but holding a hint of pain, of sorrow. "It does not bring me pleasure to tell you this."

"Tell me what?"

"You are riding upon the back of the serpent," the old man told her. She was so touched by the misery in his voice she thought she was about to cry, herself.

"I don't understand."

"You have unwittingly mounted the tail of the great ouroboros, and you have not long to live."

"Please," she answered, trying to see the man through the blinding light. "I don't know what that means."

"You need a sword," he told her. "A blade of the finest gold, worthy of Atropos herself."

"Please, what do you--" her voice broke off abruptly as the light blinked out of existence, blinding her with darkness as she had been blinded with light.

_To be continued……………………………_


	8. Sacrificing Freedom for Security

Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

-------------------------------------------------

**VIII – Sacrificing Freedom for Security**

Admiral William Adama sat patiently, awaiting his XO's answer to a question he never expected to ask – Is it time to start considering martial law? _How the hell did we come to this?_

"I don't see where this is coming from," Tigh finally said.

"Baltar's losing control," Adama explained, not thinking that much more explanation was necessary. _He's already seen it,_ Adama knew. _He knows everything's starting to come apart at the seams._

"There are still a lot of people who support him," Tigh replied. "He was Roslin's chosen successor, he was elected by the Quorum of Twelve."

"I know, Saul. You don't have to convince me." Adama sighed wearily, thinking over the situation yet again, trying to find the simple solution that had thus far eluded him. Roslin hadn't just been the legitimate successor to the presidency; she had also been the object of prophecy, a woman who uncannily fit a thousands-year old description of the woman who would lead humanity through its darkest hour. With her death, it appeared as if those two roles were now diverging – Gaius Baltar was the legitimate heir to power, and Tom Zarek was widely thought to be the Condemned Man, the leader who would rise to lead the people to Earth after the great leader's death. _Two men with claims to power, each of them with thousands of supporters. And all of those supporters are crammed into decrepit old starships, living on borrowed time, slowly – and miserably – continuing their inexorable journey toward an early grave. This isn't going to end well._

"We can wait this out," Saul suggested. "This isn't the first time religion and politics have been at odds. Things'll calm down. They always do."

"And if they don't?"

"If you listen to anyone about this, Bill, listen to me – martial law is _not_ the way to calm things down."

"I know," Adama admitted, "but I've heard people talking, I've seen some of my own crewmen – including no small number of officers – skulking in shadows, poring over scraps of paper or slipping each other datapads. And it's always the same thing."

"Donner's book," Tigh sighed.

"Yeah… Donner's book."

"We could try banning it," Tigh suggested.

"And we'd need to declare martial law to enforce the ban," Adama countered. "Besides, Laura wouldn't have wanted that."

"And it's too bad she isn't here anymore, too, since she'd be the first one to shut down this nonsense."

"She's the only one who could," Adama said, rising from his chair and stretching his legs. "She's the only one who could capably combine politics and prophecy… the rest of us are clutching at straws, trying to figure out the best combination of the two."

"Not that I'm questioning your decisions," Tigh said, taking the conversation in a new direction, "but why is this something we're even talking about? Martial law essentially means having the military step in to take over. Wouldn't it be simpler just to openly support one of the two men? There are a lot of people who consider you a hero; people will listen to what you say. At the very least, that would almost certainly bring an overwhelming majority of support behind one man or the other."

"The military's place is not to play politics," Adama replied curtly, not caring for how much of Ellen he heard in Saul's suggestion.

"The military's place is not to set policy," Tigh argued, putting a finer point on Adama's statement. "And as for politics… name me one admiral who got to that rank without kissing the ass of a few politicians."

"You mean besides me?" Adama asked sarcastically.

"Of course, present company excluded," Tigh allowed, an uncharacteristic smile spreading across his face.

"That's a dangerous road, Saul," Adama said. "It's one thing for flag officers to shmooze politicians in order to make admiral, but it's something entirely different if politicians start coming to the flag officers in order to gain or increase their own power. That's a short step from a military junta."

"As opposed to a military coup, which is nothing _but_ a junta," Tigh pointed out. "If we're talking about choosing the lesser of two evils, I think it's clear what we should do."

"I know," Adama admitted. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Then just look at it pragmatically," Tigh suggested. "When I declared martial law, I was immediately buried under an avalanche of civilian problems that completely overwhelmed me. Even before the protests and violence, I was so busy trying to manage day-to-day civilian issues that I couldn't also handle fleet defense and security. The civilian government isn't just an idea, something to guarantee freedom; we need the bureaucracy to address all of the non-military problems, too. We're too understaffed to guarantee security, even with the new levies… we can't take on any more responsibilities."

"So either Baltar or Zarek has to consolidate control," Adama said, summing up the situation. "And one of them has to do it soon, before things start to spin out of control."

"And you're going to tell me you don't have a preference as to which one it is?" Tigh asked.

"We can't get involved," Adama muttered. _As much as I want to, I can't open that door. Because once it's opened, it can't be closed again. And like Saul said, having military rule not only denies freedoms, it'll also overwhelm us so much that we won't even be able to provide security._

-------------------------------------------------

"Just a few beers, huh?" Ares asked, leveling an irritated stare at Starbuck.

"Yup, just a few," she agreed, counting the empty bottles on the small table in front of her. _Eight?_ she asked herself. _When did it get to eight?_

"My personal reserve is really getting low," Ares chided. "If you were looking to get good and hammered, you could have been decent enough to tell me so I could you from the beginning. Now I have all this catching up to do."

"Sorry," Starbuck answered. "I didn't really expect to have more than two or three. I drank one for myself, and one for Apollo. Then I had one more so that I'd stop thinking so much about Apollo. But that didn't work, so I had another. And another."

"And the next thing you know, a bunch of my beers are gone and you're making a mess of my ship," Ares said, now grinning as he twisted of a bottle cap and chugged a beer.

Kara watched quietly, remembering something she'd heard about Colonial Special Ops several years earlier; when a member of a team was killed on a mission, it was tradition for the survivors to buy a keg and do their damnedest to finish it in one night.

_I wonder how many beers he drank in honor of fallen comrades,_ she thought. _I wonder if he'll save a few to drink to me someday._

"So…" Ares said.

"So…" Starbuck repeated. They both sat silently for several minutes until Kara opened another beer and asked, "Did you know I'm the one who's responsible for getting Lee killed?"

"I hadn't heard," Ares said as casually as if she had asked whether he knew that it would be sunny in Caprica City for the next few days.

"I'm serious."

"Okay," Ares said with a shrug.

"What the frak is wrong with you?"

"That's a question better asked of you," Ares replied. "Lee was a soldier, and soldiers die. That's the way it is, and he knew it going in. You weren't with him when it happened, you didn't order him to go out there, and you sure as hell weren't the one who actually killed him. So maybe I'm a bit slow, but I don't see how you're the one to blame."

"I was the one who was supposed to be on that training flight."

"And why weren't you?"

"The admiral ordered me to crunch some numbers for the op," she explained.

"So you didn't go because you were ordered not to, and Lee went because he was ordered to take your place."

"I know what you're going to say," Starbuck said curtly, "but you're wrong. The nuggets are my responsibility. I could have rescheduled the flight to a time when I could handle it. There was no reason for Lee to go; I could have objected, but I figured I'd let him get out from behind his desk for a change. I should have known better, and I ended up getting him killed."

"Is that what the admiral said?"

"He wouldn't say it," Starbuck replied. "I mean, how the frak do you call someone to task for getting both of your sons killed?"

"Promote her and make her your CAG?" Ares suggested sarcastically.

"Frak you," Starbuck spat. She grabbed an empty bottle and threw it at Ares as hard as she could. Quick as a striking snake, his hand darted out and caught the bottle in mid-flight before setting it gently back on the table.

"You're not the only one who was a professional sports prospect," he said with a wink.

"Oh really?"

"Varsity at East Delphi University," Ares confirmed with a wistful nod. "In the end, my dreams were bigger than my talent. But that didn't stop me from training my ass off for a few years."

"Probably better that you caught it, anyway," Starbuck grumbled. "It's not like I have pilots to spare… you're better off in the cockpit than the infirmary."

"With a bottle sticking out of my head," Ares added. "Not that I was ever in any real danger – you're probably tipsy enough to be seeing double right now."

Starbuck couldn't help but laugh. It felt good, though a second later her guilt was back, and only made worse by the fact that she had dared to smile for a moment. "So what now?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"What do we do now?"

"You mean right now, or in general?" Ares asked.

"Right now," Starbuck answered. "A lot of people died this past year. Billions of people I never knew, lots of pilots I knew well, even our prophesied great leader. And not to sound awful, but it wasn't like I cared all that much. The last person who died that I really cared about was Zak. And now…"

"Now his brother," Ares finished for her. "Apollo's a good guy."

"He was," Starbuck agreed.

"And while he'd be touched by your self-destructive, alcohol-soaked reaction to your grief, I think he'd also prefer if you got back to work as soon as possible."

"I can't," Starbuck said. "At least not yet. I can't deal with them right now."

"With who?"

"The pilots," she explained. "They're driving me up a frakking wall; I don't know how Lee handled them. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, Kat is all up in my face every frakking minute, giving me attitude and making like she's the gods' gift to us mere mortals."

"The nerve," Ares commented, producing a pack of cigarettes and lighting one with a practiced flourish. "After all, you've made it quite clear that _you're_ the gods' gift."

"I'm serious," Starbuck said. "She's a pain in the ass. This morning I was a little hung over, so I handed off my CAP to someone else. It wouldn't have been safe for me to be flying, but she made it out to be like some kind of capital offense or something. She questioned my ability as an officer."

"Just because you'd been drinking?" Ares asked, taking a long drag off his cigarette. "The nerve, questioning the capacity of an officer who'd been drinking on the job."

"I wasn't drinking on the job," Kara protested.

"Maybe not this morning, but when you came in to ask me if you could come in here to grab a few beers, it was a full hour before your shift was up," Ares said. "And that was just over two hours ago. So unless you drank all that beer in little more than an hour, it seems to me that you must've been drinking before your shift was over. And that's after getting a late start because of your hangover."

"I'm just under a lot of stress lately."

"The familiar refrain of all budding alcoholics."

"Frak off," Starbuck snapped. "I don't need the attitude."

"So I should sit here quietly and smile as you give me hell while you drink my irreplaceable beer?" Ares asked.

"It's not like that."

"It really is," Ares countered. "You're upset, and that's understandable, but hasn't this little drama with you and Kat reminded you of anyone else?"

"Huh?"

"Just sounds to me like you and Kat are starting to sound like you and Tigh is all."

"Get out," Starbuck growled.

"It's my ship," Ares reminded her.

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"Usually."

"So what about that little problem I told you about?" Starbuck asked, thinking that as long as she and Ares were alone, that maybe they could get some work done.

"You mean with the op?"

"Yup."

"I've got an angle," Ares assured her. "We can go over it tomorrow."

"And why not now?"

"Because if we keep drinking at this pace, neither of us will remember what we talked about, and we'll just have to do it all over again, anyway. So I'd rather just drink, instead."

"A drink to Apollo," Starbuck said, raising her bottle.

Ares raised his own bottle and nodded in her direction, then finished that beer and opened another.

"We're never going to see Earth, are we?" Starbuck finally asked.

"Come again?"

"We'll never see Earth," Starbuck repeated. "I mean, look at us. The pilots, I mean. Take Kat, for instance – on a good day, she's one hell of a pilot. In fact, if she had a good day and caught me on a bad day, she might even be able to take me out."

"Maybe," Ares admitted. "But you'd have to be having a really crap day."

"No I wouldn't," Starbuck grumbled. "But still, everyone has an off day here and there. It's human nature. But the cylons… I don't think they have off days."

"Probably not," Ares agreed. "They're machines, so you can expect consistency – nothing stellar, nothing below-average."

"And when they started the war, I'll tell ya – I didn't think the average raider had a chance against an average human Viper pilot. Though there was always the chance that a raider could catch a human on a bad day."

"Uh-huh."

"But… well, I thought that maybe I was going crazy, but I started to think the raiders weren't as bad as they used to be."

"Really?"

"Yeah. They started reacting faster, anticipating our tactics more quickly. Almost like they were learning. You know, all of them."

"And?"

"And I talked to Sharon about it," Starbuck admitted. "I asked her what the deal is, whether the cylons were learning from our tactics and upgrading the programming in their raiders."

"Uh-huh."

"And do you know what she said?"

"Not yet."

"She told me the raiders are just like the cylons that look human," Starbuck said. "She told me that like the human ones, the raiders have individual personalities. They learn, the same as we do, and unlike us, they get downloaded and resurrected in new bodies, the same as the human ones do, after they're destroyed. She said they don't like dying, and they use the pain of death and rebirth as a learning experience and incentive not to do it again."

"Frak me…" Ares muttered.

"So over time, we're only going to get worn down, tired, and eventually old, while our enemies never age, never tire, and only get better and more motivated with each battle."

"We already knew we could never hope to win a war of attrition, but with this…"

"I know," Starbuck said with a grim nod. "It's funny in a way, because when I'm on a short leave over on the _Astral Queen_ or something, I hear people talk about us sometimes. You know, the pilots."

"Uh-huh."

"And they talk about us like we're heroes, like we just stepped out of the legends of old. It's like they think we're super-human, when the reality is I'm sitting here counting the days, knowing that the defenseless civilians will likely outlive me. We're not free to do what we want, the way they are; we have no security, since we're going face-to-face with the cylons every time they show up. Basically, we're screwed."

"So they think we're superhuman, but you figure they'll all outlive us in the end."

"Yeah. Which is why I think we should live in the moment, just enjoy what we have while we can," Starbuck said, fishing a cigarette out of the pack Ares had dropped on the table. "Because sooner or later, we're gonna end up in a Viper, having an off-day against veteran machines."

"Live in the day, huh?" Ares said with a sly grin. "Just stop worrying about the consequences?"

"Yup," Starbuck agreed. "No more thinking about what it means in the long-term. Besides, every time I think in the long-term, it only hurts."

"Because of that pyramid player of yours."

"Damnit, Ares…" Starbuck grumbled. "Here I was, being a perfectly happy, brooding drunk, and you had to remind me of Sam."

"So now you'll end up being a sloppy, miserable drunk?"

"Probably," Starbuck agreed, taking a long drag off the cigarette, holding her breath for several seconds before exhaling through her nose. "Why, you got any ideas on how to cheer me up?"

"I have a few," Ares admitted. "But it all depends on whether or not you can get us some simulator time."

"Huh?"

"I just finished programming a combat scenario in the Styx asteroid field," Ares told her. "And I'd love to see how well we can handle it drunk."

"Well… only one way to find out."

-------------------------------------------------

"You _do_ realize you're not working for a politician anymore, right?" Dee asked, thoroughly enjoying Billy's confused expression.

"Yeah," he assured her, finally starting to smile.

"Good, because with the way you talk, you sound like you're still all about people having a voice and all."

"I _am_ about people having a voice."

"Right, but now that means _other_ people," Dee pointed out.

"Huh?"

"You gave up your right to bitch and moan when you signed on the dotted line and put on that uniform," Dee said, silently admitting that Billy looked far more impressive in uniform than she'd expected he would.

"Well, not everyone agrees with that," Billy countered. "Captain Adama--"

"Forget it," Dee interrupted, not wanting to hear another word about Billy's hero and martyr, Captain Lee Adama, who had apparently become a legend in his own time somewhere along the line. He had been in charge of Billy's abbreviated officer training, and it had not been long before Billy's hero worship dominated his conversations with Dee. Lee's death had only exacerbated things.

"It's not something we can – or even should – just forget," Billy retorted. "True, we're soldiers, and soldiers have to follow orders without questioning everything that comes up. If we think too much, there'll be chaos. But if we never ask any questions – if we always just follow our orders like mindless automatons – then we're no different than the cylons. We have a moral responsibility to make certain that the actions of the military serve the populace and the civilian government, not subvert them."

"You really do sound just like Lee," Dee replied. "I mean, Apollo. Captain Adama." She did her best to conceal how shocked she was that she had let on that she and Lee had been on a first-name basis. There were several ways Billy could take that, and few of them were good.

"Well, someone should," Billy said without missing a beat. "The admiral gave the order to gun down civilians on the _Astral Queen_, and--"

"Those civilians were armed and holding hostages," Dee pointed out.

"And he keeps dragooning civilian ships into military service," Billy continued, ignoring Dee's interruption.

"You can hardly say he 'keeps on dragooning civilian ships,' Billy – there were only two of them."

"So far. And I've also heard rumors about the admiral declaring martial law."

"Just rumors," Dee assured him. "Everyone remembers how that worked out for Tigh last time. No one's going to make that mistake again."

"Even if civil war breaks out?"

"What? Seriously, Billy, where do you hear this stuff?"

"Well, I was talking to Lieutenant Fetter when he landed after his CAP, and he said--"

"Ares?" Dee interrupted. "You listened to something Ares said? Frak, Billy…"

"He made a lot of sense," Billy insisted.

"If he did, it's only because he was saying exactly what you wanted to hear," Dee responded with a grin, surprised that Billy, with all of his recent political experience, could be so easily taken in by one alarmist, trigger-happy pilot.

"It wasn't like that," Billy told her.

"The other pilots call him Ares for a reason," Dee explained. "He's always looking for ways we could end up in a fight. There were a few times I was training with Captain Apollo that he told me about how Ares insisted we were heading for civil war. He's been saying this for weeks, and it hasn't happened yet."

"Okay, but--"

"Just don't worry about it," Dee said. "This is just how it is in the military – everyone's always looking for the next enemy we may have to shoot at. When we get tired of watching the DRADIS screen or thinking about who might by a cylon spy, we start wondering what might get us shooting at each other again, the way it happened sometime back in the Colonies. It's no biggie."

"It's no biggie?" Billy asked incredulously. "We're talking about civil war."

"Won't happen," Dee assured him.

"Fine," Billy finally relented. "So what are you up to tonight?"

"Working third shift."

"I checked the duty roster – you're supposed to be free."

"I volunteered to put in some extra time," Dee answered with a shrug, hoping Billy wouldn't press the issue. She wanted to be as alone as possible, and third shift in C.I.C, was as close to that as she could expect to get. _And is it that you want to be alone, or is it that you really just want to not be with Billy?_ she found herself wondering, shocked that such a thing could even occur to her.

_To be continued……………………………_


	9. Awakening to Apotheosis

Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

-------------------------------------------------

**IX – Awakening to Apotheosis**

"I need a doctor."

"Are you ill?" a warm voice asked from the surrounding darkness. As before, the woman could not see who was speaking to her, but she was comforted, nonetheless.

"I don't know."

"Do you _feel_ ill?"

The woman lay still for several minutes, trying to decide how to answer. She did not feel ill; truth be told, she did not think she felt much of anything. She curled her fingers into a fist and took a deep breath, both actions taken only to convince herself that she did, in fact, exist. _But do I feel ill?_ she asked herself. "No, I'm not ill," she finally decided.

"Are you injured?"

"I don't think so." That, at least, she was certain of. Injuries meant pain, and she was not in pain.

"Then why do you need a doctor?" the voice asked.

"I'm not sure," the woman admitted.

"Does that seem normal to you?"

"No." Silence descended once again, becoming the default condition for the woman's universe. _Silence and darkness, all the time. It didn't used to be this way._ She found it impossible to remember how her life actually had been, but she was certain that there was a time when she was surrounded by people, when she never had silence and never saw total darkness.

"Would you like me to take you to a doctor?" the voice asked.

"Yes," the woman said. She still did not know why she needed a doctor, but in the back of her mind she knew she did. _And seeing a doctor will mean something different in my world,_ she decided, admitting to herself that perhaps she was desperate for change as much as she was for medical attention.

For several minutes there was nothing but more silence and darkness; but then an almost undetectable scraping grew into a grating, grinding noise. A sliver of light – a soft, pale blue – emerged not far from where the woman was lying. The woman realized that the sound was that of a large boulder being moved, apparently to expose her to some sort of light. _Sunlight?_ she wondered. _Sunlight isn't blue, it's yellow. Or red, on a couple of the Colonies._ This revelation confused her for two reasons: first, she had no idea how she knew that sunlight wasn't supposed to be blue, and second, she had no idea what, or where, the Colonies were.

What she did know, however, was that she was now gazing into large eyes set in a small, furry head. What was now staring at her seemed like a living, stuffed bear, less than a meter tall and with bright, purple eyes that somehow accentuated what appeared to be a wide grin.

It made a high-pitched chirping sound as it approached warily. The woman stayed perfectly still, thinking that any sudden movements might frighten her visitor. She had been alone for too long, though she had no idea how long that was, and she had no intention of scaring away the first face she had seen since… _How long has it been?_ she wondered. _When was the last time I ever saw anyone else? How long have I been alone in the darkness?_

Her visitor made another chirping sound, but this time the woman recognized it as speech. Not that she could understand a word of it. _Not that there even appear to be words to understand._ A second creature entered and stared at her with what she could only think of as awe. Together, the two of them approached, stopping just out of her reach. They looked at her, and then at each other, and then back at her. Finally, the second one chirped at the first, and the woman had the strange sensation that the creature was daring the first one to touch her. In confirmation of her suspicion, the creature did so, poking gently at her arm with a soft, padded paw.

"Hello," the woman said softly. The second of the two creatures scrambled backwards, falling over in its haste to put distance between itself and the woman. But the first held its ground; after a moment, it chirped yet again. _He has no idea what I said, but he understands that I was trying to communicate. He understands that I mean no harm._

The two creatures chirped between themselves for several minutes, and then the second finally approached once again. This time it was him that touched her, a gentle scratch letting the woman know that there were claws within those paws. She smiled, and she had the impression that both of her visitors smiled back.

They turned to each other and chirped again. Two more entered the cave and started walking around the woman's body. As they moved, she looked at herself, taken off guard by the fact that she found her own body unfamiliar. She had spent so much time in darkness that she had begun to forget what it was like to see her own hands, her own arms. Her body was completely bare, but her skin seemed smoother than she remembered, devoid of scars, wrinkles, and freckles. _Almost like I've been renewed, regenerated, or even reborn._

The creatures seemed as interested in her appearance as she did, with the first one to have entered now prodding gently all along her arms. It seemed fascinated by the fact that she lacked its thick, soft fur. The woman smiled, and even giggled softly when the creature's touch tickled the inside of her elbow.

After a few minutes, several more creatures entered the cave carrying sticks and strips of leather. The woman tried to remain awake as her visitors began to assemble a gurney, but she found it impossible to fend off her overwhelming fatigue. _Have I been awake all this time in the darkness?_ she wondered. She almost felt as if she were just getting up in the morning, convinced that she had slept at some point during the night, but utterly incapable of remembering when that had been.

She finally allowed her eyes to close, relaxing at the touch of her first visitor. Her breath slowed, and she felt absolute bliss as the singsong chirps of the creatures put her to sleep, just as gently as the lullabies she remembered her mother humming when she was still a child.

-------------------------------------------------

When she awoke, it was to find herself stretched out on a straw-covered floor, several soft blankets below her, and one covering her, a low-burning fire several feet away. She looked around and saw that she was now in some type of tent, conical in shape and constructed of what looked like leather hides tied to a wooden frame. A moment later, she realized she was not alone – the creature that had been first to enter her cave was sitting on her other side, a small clay jug in its hands.

"Hello," the woman said.

The creature just stared, its purple eyes comforting, warm, friendly. It held the jug forward, and the woman sat up slowly, taking it in her own hands. The clay was cold and slightly slippery, coated with condensation, and she marveled at how good it felt against her palms. She raised the jug to her mouth, sniffing tentatively and finally taking a sip when she found it impossible to catch a scent of whatever was inside. _Just water,_ she decided. There was nothing special about it – it was only cold water – but she doubted she had ever tasted anything so good in her whole life. With every sip, she realized how thirsty she had been.

Water dribbled down her chin and onto her chest, which she noted was now covered by a leather tunic. Finally, the jug all but empty, she passed the container back to her host, smiling broadly. "Thank you," she said with a broad, satisfied smile. The creature seemed to smile back, but she was uncertain if it was simply aping her or whether the smile was a genuine expression.

"What are you?" she asked.

The creature chirped, and then bounded to its feet. It crossed to a thin opening in the tent, waddling more than walking, reminding the woman of a young child taking its first uncertain steps. It pulled back a flap of leather and chirped out into the night. Moments later, two more creatures came in carrying wood trays. They placed them next to the woman, and within moments she found herself salivating at the scent of the food.

The unappetizing display had a sweet, almost flowery aroma; she assumed it was some kind of fruit, a dark, grayish brown that appeared rotted, though it smelled fresh and was firm in her hand when she picked up a slice. She nibbled at the food, her stomach growling. _Definitely some kind of fruit,_ she decided, though she had never tasted anything like it. A combination of fresh custard and firefruit, a sugary sweetness exploded in her mouth, quickly fading to a smooth, creamy spiciness vaguely reminiscent of cinnamon.

"That's amazing," she said, deciding to forego manners for a few moments as she ate several large pieces of the fruit.

The two creatures that had brought the food departed, leaving her once more with the creature that had first found her.

"You're a doctor of some kind, aren't you?" the woman asked, remembering that she had asked for a doctor moments before the creature had moved away the boulder that had sealed her in a cave.

The creature, for its part, simply stared at her, appearing pleased with the fact that she was rapidly devouring the food set out for her. As she picked at the last few pieces of fruit, washing down the food with more water, the doctor struggled to its feet and crossed slowly to her. The woman remained still, allowing him to poke her softly, to look through her hair, to sniff at her ears and hands. The examination took several minutes, and by the time the creature had finished walking around her and stood before her again, she found that she was once more drifting off to sleep.

The doctor chirped, and then he gently pushed her back against the blankets, clearly suggesting that she needed rest. She saw no point in arguing.

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When the woman awoke again, it was to a soft breeze on her face. She was covered by blankets, warm and snug despite the crisp air around her. She kept her eyes closed and remembered visiting her uncle's cabin in the mountains. _I can almost smell the cedars,_ she told herself as the breeze picked up for a few brief moments. The familiar, comforting sound of rustling leaves caused her to open her eyes and take in what she thought might have been the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She was actually up in a tree – she could see that now – placed on some type of cot that she hoped was securely attached to a mammoth limb. She also saw several of the creatures that had found her in the cave; they were running up and down the trees, quick and graceful in a way that she had noticed her host definitely was not when he tried to walk on two feet.

_They're arboreal,_ she decided. _Walking like I do isn't what they were built for._ It suddenly struck the woman that she could not remember the last time she had walked. She looked cautiously to her right and saw that the edge of the tree branch was several feet away. The branch had to be over five meters wide, and it had been planed down into a smooth surface to support not only her cot, but also another conical tent like the one she had awakened in after being taken from her cave.

Seeing that she was awake, several of the creatures, many of them even smaller than the one that had been caring for her, stopped dead in their tracks and stared at her. She rose to her feet and looked around, certain that she saw awe in the creatures' eyes.

She stared back for several moments, until the doctor came into view, climbing headfirst down a nearby tree, much like a squirrel. He leaped from that tree to a branch above her on her tree; then dropped softly onto his feet before walking toward her. He gestured for the woman to sit, and once more he proceeded through the increasingly familiar examination. Once he was done, the doctor walked awkwardly to the edge of the large branch and sat down on the edge, his feet hanging over the side. He looked at the woman and gestured for her to join him.

She walked slowly, fear rising in her more with every step she took closer to the edge. _He's taken care of me,_ she reminded herself. _He won't do anything to harm me. He isn't going to toss me off the branch._

As she stepped closer, she was able to see through more of the leaves and branches of nearby trees, taking in a beautiful scene beneath her. Awe chased away fear, and before she even knew what she was doing, she had sat down next to the doctor, unable to turn her eyes from the spectacle below. Mountains rose all around them, with their forest clearly resting at the bottom of a valley. The tree she was in was near a lake, the mirror-like water reflecting the pale blue sunlight and the massive, four-legged beasts that ringed the water, many bathing in the lake while others lazily picked at trees near the water's edge.

The woman suddenly felt small and insignificant. The trees, the lake, the mountains, and even the animals – all except the ones caring for her – were all larger than life. But at the same time, she also felt safe, secure, and loved.

"I never want to leave here," she muttered.

The doctor looked at her with wide eyes and what appeared to be a smile, and he chirped softly in reply. She did not have to know his language to understand his meaning. "Yes, she agreed, "it would be nice to spend the rest of my life here." She didn't flinch at all when the doctor's soft paw grabbed a hold of her fingers.

"I know nothing about you," the woman said softly. "I don't know where I am, or what your people are, or how you communicate. But I feel like you're the best friend I've had in a long time. And I'm going to miss you when I leave."

_To be continued……………………………_


	10. Questions of Identity

Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**Author's Note:** When I first started tossing around ideas for this trilogy in my mind, I had a definite theme in mind. But then I got in a short exchange with **Brynn McK**, who posed some of the questions that come out in Scene 2 of this chapter, thus helping me better focus my story. Additionally, **Elentari2** made some comments during an amusing IM session, and that helped me realize I'd overlooked a few important matters in Scene 2, so her input also made that scene better. So thanks to both of them for their invaluable help, even though neither of them realized how they were helping when they did it. :)

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**X – Questions of Identity**

"Who are you?" Dr. Drake asked Sharon as soon as Helo had settled himself in his chair.

"Sharon Valerii," she answered without missing a beat.

"No, that's just a name," Drake countered.

"That's who I am," she protested.

"No one is simply a name," Drake said. "Especially not a cylon. I want to know who you are."

"I already told you."

"You told me nothing."

"I don't know what you want."

"Wait a second," Helo interrupted. He had never seen Drake start off a session so aggressively, and it had taken him completely off-guard. He needed a moment to catch up, and the look on Sharon's face told him he wasn't alone.

"That's your one interruption," Drake snapped menacingly. "The next word out of you gets you removed from the room, Lieutenant. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Helo growled, half-hoping that Drake would dare use that one word as reason for calling in the guards. _Four of them today,_ Helo noted, suddenly getting a bad feeling in his gut. To his disappointment, though, Drake simply nodded and turned back to Sharon.

"Approximately two years ago, Sharon Valerii arrived on the _Galactica_," Drake said. "She spent time here, apparently never realizing that she was a cylon. Eventually, the cylons attacked, and Lieutenant Agathon was stranded on Caprica. While there, he was joined by what he thought was Sharon Valerii."

"It _was_ Sharon Valerii," she said. "I _am_ Sharon Valerii."

"But Sharon Valerii was also still here on _Galactica_," Drake pointed out. "Were the two of you connected? Did she realize you were on Caprica?"

"No. She thought she was human."

"Were you aware that she was on _Galactica_?"

"Yes."

Helo was about to interrupt, but he saw a hungry gleam in Drake's eyes; he didn't dare say a word, knowing that Drake wouldn't hesitate to follow through on his threats this time. _He's after something specific today,_ Helo realized. _Something he's been building to. And I can't help Sharon if I get myself thrown out only a few minutes into the interrogation._

"You have all of the memories of the Sharon who was here on _Galactica_, even those she gained as you were playing her role on Caprica?" Drake asked.

"Yes," Sharon confirmed.

"And you possess all of the memories that that copy had of her early life, manufactured memories that helped her pass as human, that helped her even _believe_ she was human."

"Yes."

"So who are you?" Drake asked again.

"Sharon Valerii."

"That's impossible." Dr. Drake leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and staring down the cylon. "Sharon Valerii is a human name, a human identity stolen by a cylon. Sharon Valerii is human, even if the cylon who assumed that name is anything but. As humans cannot combine memories of two separate bodies, you cannot be Sharon."

"You're splitting hairs," Sharon responded with a sneer.

"I don't believe I am," Drake replied. "The cylons have thousands of replacement bodies, don't they?"

"Yes."

"And some of them looked exactly like you?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Hundreds," Sharon said. "Thousands."

"But were they all Sharon?" Drake asked.

"Excuse me?"

"If activated, or whatever word you choose to use, would they all be just like you? Or might one or more of them be programmed with certain information missing? Could they take on completely different memories of other cylon personalities? What if there are more copies of you on Caprica? If such a copy were destroyed, would that consciousness be passed into a new body without knowledge of you here on _Galactica_?"

"No," Sharon said with certainty. "I'm not linked to the cylons like that anymore."

"But you were at one time?" Drake asked. "Is that something they could have done before?"

"Maybe."

"We've encountered several cylon agents within the fleet," Drake said, seemingly changing his approach. "One of them was Shelly Godfrey."

"Yes."

"And I would have to assume that other copies of that same cylon are out there somewhere."

"Yes."

"And do these other copies share the same consciousness?"

"I don't see what you--"

"It's simple," Drake sighed. "Are they the same person – the same personality – linked together and all acting for the benefit of that unifying consciousness, or are they several – dozens, hundreds, maybe even thousands – of distinct personalities who happened to be downloaded into identical bodies?"

Helo worked through Drake's words, trying to figure out exactly how the doctor could say that the concept was simple. Sharon didn't seem like she was having trouble following along, though.

"I don't know how we're constructed, really," Sharon admitted, "but I'd guess that they're all separate and distinct personalities. I was never aware of what every other Sharon was doing, and I sure as hell never behaved according to the orders of some external consciousness."

"So there are many personalities with your appearance…" Drake said, clearly considering the possibilities. "Could any of those other consciousnesses be downloaded into your body?"

Helo gasped at the question, and he saw Sharon start to look sick. He knew in his heart that she had never given that question any thought.

"What I want to know, Ms. Valerii," Drake clarified, "is whether one of those copies of you walking around back there on the Colonies could have had Shelly Godfrey's personality loaded into it. Furthermore, is it possible to download that personality into you?"

"You mean erase me and replace me with a different personality."

"I mean download into you a personality that may be less… ambiguous… in its support of either the human or cylon cause."

"You don't trust me."

"I don't even know who you are," Drake countered. "Are you the young woman who first came to _Galactica_? Are you the physically identical young woman who joined up with Helo on Caprica? Are you a combination of the two? Are you someone else, someone we haven't seen yet? Are you maybe a copy of Shelly Godfrey, at least in personality, but given Sharon's memories so that you can fit in? For that matter, Ms. Valerii, do you even know the answer to any of those questions?"

"I'm _not_ Shelly Godfrey," Sharon spat, but Helo could see that as for anything else, she was at a complete loss.

"Perhaps you're simply toying with us," Drake suggested. "After all, it's not as if we can read your mind. But then again, perhaps you're every bit as sincere as you seem in your love for Helo and your child, though maybe you risk having your memory wiped and replaced by a personality that's more compliant in working toward the cylons' goals, whatever they may be."

"I _am_ sincere."

"But we have no way of proving that, or even of knowing whether we can count on that continuing. We can only assume that there are thousands of cylon bodies, but only a handful of cylon consciousnesses – cylon _models_, so to speak," Drake said. "How many minds go with those bodies, Ms. Valerii?"

"I don't see why you keep asking the question," Sharon retorted angrily. "Ask as many ways as you want – I don't know the answer."

"Of course you do," Drake said in a terrifyingly calm tone that actually sent a shiver down Helo's spine. "And I think you know full well why I'm asking. Overwhelming thousands upon thousands of humaniform cylons – each of them capable of acting independently – is, perhaps, impossible to accomplish in a prolonged war of attrition. But somehow erasing only a comparative handful – hundreds rather than thousands, or maybe thousands rather than tens or hundreds of thousands – of consciousnesses might be a fairly attainable goal."

This time it was Sharon who gasped, and Helo practically roared as he sprang to his feet, his chair sliding across the room as he stared down at Drake. "Enough," he growled. "We're done here."

"Hardly," Drake answered, remaining seated and looking curiously up at the ECO.

Three powerful strides brought Helo around the table; without a word, he grabbed the front of Drake's shirt and hauled him to his feet. "We're done. You're done."

Drake didn't answer; his expression never changed, not even when the marine guards grabbed Helo from behind and pulled him away from the engineer. Instinct took over as Helo threw two powerful jabs, sending Private Carmody to the floor with blood flowing from his nose. Private Perth quickly joined him, and Helo whirled to face Seikly and Dacascos. The two remaining marines were too quick; Seikly caught Helo between the eyes with his baton, stunning him momentarily. After that, it only took the marines a few moments to beat Helo down to the floor, cuffing his hands behind his back and dragging him from the interrogation room.

"No!" Helo screamed, his legs flailing as he tried to kick the marines, struggling to regain his feet and force Drake from the room.

The last thing Helo saw before the door closed and he was hauled off to the brig was the hungry, feral smile of the engineer who was suddenly alone with his cylon subject.

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Standing by the entrance to the tent, the woman inhaled deeply, thrilled by the increasingly familiar combination of rich scents – leaves, flowers, fruits, spices, and even dirt. It smelled like youth, spring, and adventure, and she found herself feeling refreshed as she never had before.

"Have you enjoyed your time here?" a voice asked. It caught the woman by surprise, and she almost fell over as she whirled to face the man who had spent so much time speaking to her in the darkness. He circled around a tree trunk that supported the platform holding her tent.

"Yes," she answered, taking in his features.

He was old and slightly overweight, though as he approached her, he was noticeably light on his feet. "We will not be able to stay here much longer," he told her.

"I know," she admitted. She had suspected that much as soon as she saw the sad expression on his face. He seemed so familiar, but she could not place where she had seen him before. "Who are you?"

"Is that really the question you want to ask most?"

"No," she admitted. "Who am I?"

"Not yet," the old man told her. "Soon."

"Then where are we?" she asked, suddenly extremely frustrated with her visitor and the conversation. "How did I get here?"

"We're somewhere safe," the man assured her. "I know you'd probably like an answer that's more specific, but as to that question, there's no more to say – the simple fact is that the planet doesn't have a name. As for how you got here, that's simple – I brought you here. I knew this planet would be safe."

"It feels safe," the woman commented.

"And do you know why we can't stay?"

"I don't belong here," she answered without a moment's hesitation.

"You don't?"

"No. But I wish I did. It's… it's beautiful. It's peaceful."

"Does the peace bother you? Does it make you desire to be somewhere else?" the man asked, now smiling with amusement at the thought.

"No," she said. "I wish I could stay. But it feels… wrong. I belong somewhere else."

"Somewhere without peace." His words, spoken so softly, were a perfect, painful summation of her feelings on the subject.

"Yes," she agreed. "Do you know where I belong?"

"I know where you were, though I can't say if you belonged there," the man explained evasively, once more irritating the woman with what she increasingly felt were intentionally cryptic replies. "But you needed rest."

"I was injured."

"To put it mildly," the man said with a nod.

"Was it bad?" If she feared the question, she was absolutely terrified by the answer.

"You were dead."

"Dead." The woman took a few tentative steps backward, putting some space between her and her visitor. "You expect me to believe you brought me back from the dead?"

"I'm a very good doctor," the man replied with an indulgent smile. "When it comes to medicine, the great god Apollo has nothing on me."

"So you healed mortal wounds?" the woman said, trying to find some way of asking her question without admitting – either to him or herself – that she believed she'd been dead.

"Yes," the man sighed, as if the accomplishment were nothing of note. "Though in the end, I did little more than bring you here. It was your new friends who helped you regain your strength, who nursed you back to health."

"What are they?"

"They call themselves the parvulai."

"They're friendly."

"They don't know malice," the man explained. "They don't know fear. Or hatred. Or vengeance. When they saw you, they saw only a creature in need of aid; they responded without thought of reward or duty. It's simply in their nature to assist those in need."

"My people aren't like that."

"No." If there was any emotion in the word, it was disappointment.

The woman waited several minutes, thinking on what the man had said. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Humanity was driven from its home. Do you not remember?"

"There was a war," the woman said, images filling her mind as soon as the man asked the question.

"Yes," he agreed. "And you lost. You fled. The planet we're standing on – the home of the parvulai – is slightly more than ten light years from your home planet."

"My people are coming here?"

"No. The survivors are going in the opposite direction."

Again, the woman took several minutes to think over the situation. _There's a reason he brought me here, something I need to see, or hear, or realize…_

"The parvulai are in danger, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"Because of what we did?"

The man nodded, a grim expression on his face. "Your enemies will come here eventually."

"My enemies," she repeated. "The cylons." She didn't know how she knew the word – she wasn't even sure what a cylon was – but she knew they were her enemies.

"The cylons drove you from your homes, they ravaged your worlds. Humans created the cylons, and then ran away when their creations rose up and attacked them."

"We couldn't win," the woman objected. "The war was over."

"Humans created the cylons," the man repeated, now sounding irritated, even angry. "You tried to play god; you fashioned intelligent machines to serve you. Now your rebellious children have taken over your household, and your neighbors will suffer."

"The parvulai."

"They live simply and peacefully. They have no knowledge of humans or their mistakes. The parvulai will be lambs to the slaughter, butchered on the altar of human fear, shortsightedness, and irresponsibility."

"What can I do?" The woman knew the man wanted her to take action, to change the future he was warning would come to pass.

"What makes you believe you can do anything?"

"I'm still alive, aren't I?" she reasoned. "As long as I'm alive, I can do something. _We_ can do something."

"And what would you do?" he challenged. "Humans are a dangerous species; they have a singular talent for destroying all that they touch. Your greatest advances come in times of war, when you're preoccupied with seeking news ways of destroying each other. Perhaps it's fitting that your greatest accomplishment – creation of a new, intelligent species – should be your undoing."

"You sound as if you'd prefer that we die."

"And you've failed to present a reason to feel otherwise," the man responded. "You've demonstrated a willingness to survive, but not a reason. Tell me – why does humanity _deserve_ to survive?"

"Why are you asking me that question?"

"Because you are your people's representative," the man explained.

"You know who I am?"

"You're Laura Roslin, the President of the Colonies, the last surviving member of the old Colonial government."

"Laura," she muttered, feeling something fall into place in her mind. She couldn't remember anything else beyond that, but knowing her name meant a lot. She had a feeling of identity again.

"Your people are at war, struggling and dying as they flee," the man said. "You sacrifice your ideals here and there, all in the name of survival. But what does survival mean if you lose all that you are in the process?"

"What does retaining our identity and values mean if we end up dead because of it?" Roslin countered.

"A species' worth is not defined only by its values," the man explained. "It's also defined by its willingness to cling to those values when they're threatened. Look at the parvulai," he said, pointing to two young creatures carrying a third up toward the forest canopy.

"They help each other," Roslin said.

"Caring for each other is one of their values; it's a part of their identity, even part of their nature," the man said. His eyes bored into Roslin's as he spoke, and she found herself as troubled by his gaze as she did by his words. "When winter comes to this region, it will last a long time. And the strong will not abandon the weak, even if it means their own lives. Humans are not made of such stern stuff. When the cylons came, those who could run, did."

Roslin gasped as she was hit with a flash of forgotten memory. _I abandoned the survivors who didn't have FTL drives,_ she remembered. In her heart, she stood by the decision – to have done otherwise would have gotten everyone killed. But she saw what the man meant. _I can talk about how humans will care for each other, I can preach night and day about our values, but when faced with life or death, we will always cut our losses and sacrifice the weak so that the strongest will survive._

"You're beginning to understand," the man said with a nod, as if he could read her mind.

"Why does humanity deserve to survive?" Roslin asked, turning on her heel and looking out through the rustling leaves around her. _It's not enough to go back to my people and lead them,_ she decided. _I have to provide direction, and vision. And to do that, I have to be able to answer why we deserve, as a species, to survive._

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Helo took a deep breath when he heard approaching footsteps, leaning back against the wall of the alcove, listening carefully to make sure that only one person was approaching. _It's only him,_ he decided, certain that his target didn't have any marines protecting him this time. When he guessed Doctor Drake was only a few feet away, Helo stepped from his hiding place, pistol in hand, eliciting a startled cry from the engineer.

"I won't let you hurt her," Helo growled, raising his pistol and pressing the barrel against Drake's forehead.

"There's an old fable I heard years ago that maybe you should keep in mind," Drake suggested, suddenly appearing eerily calm in his predicament.

"Really," Helo muttered sarcastically.

"Yes, really," Drake assured him. "You see, a man bought a goose, and the morning after he brought it home, he was amazed to find that the goose laid golden eggs. He kept his eye on that goose, and every morning the man found a new golden egg. The man knew that as long as the goose kept laying the eggs, it wouldn't take him long to lift himself out of his poverty; but the man grew impatient. Instead of waiting for the eggs, he decided to cut the goose open and take out the gold that was waiting for him inside. And do you know what happened?"

"Do tell," Helo grunted, still staring down the barrel of his pistol, refusing to be distracted by Drake's story.

"All he found inside was bits of goose."

"Bits of goose, huh?"

"There was no gold, no treasure, nothing special at all," Drake explained. "What was special about the goose was not what it was, but what it gave the man on a regular basis."

"What's your point?"

"We've conducted autopsies on cylons," Drake answered. "We've dissected them, run chemical and genetic analyses, and we've exposed their tissue to radiation. I dare say we've learned all we're likely to learn from cylon corpses, and I see no reason to repeat past experiments."

"So you're saying you're not going to kill her," Helo surmised.

"Correct."

"That still leaves a lot available to you," he pointed out, imagining all the horrors that could still be inflicted on Sharon while keeping her alive.

"There are some who've pointed that out," Drake admitted. "We could experiment with Ms. Valerii, maybe see how she responds to electric shocks, X-rays, magnetic fields, extremes of heat and cold, maybe find out if she's vulnerable to the same poisons humans are. And we might learn a great deal that could provide us with tactical knowledge of our enemy. Or we may inadvertently kill her by stumbling upon something that she's unexpectedly vulnerable to."

"I thought that was the whole point," Helo retorted. _If he thinks I'm stupid, he's in for a surprise._ "I thought you were in there looking for weaknesses."

"I am," Drake replied. "But let's imagine, for a moment, that I discover relatively low doses of X-rays render cylons completely inoperative. So what? We'd still have to figure out a way to adapt that knowledge into a technology that would be militarily useful – to weaponize the technology – and there's no guarantee we ever could. And even if we did, all that would do is help us destroy cylons."

"Once again – I thought that was the point."

"No," Drake said, shaking his head. "Destroy a cylon, and it just gets downloaded into a new body. Destroy that new body, and another is there to replace it. Over and over… We've destroyed cylons, Lieutenant. Individual cylons. We know we can do that. What we want to learn – what we _need_ to learn – is how to destroy cylon civilization; not only how to destroy an individual cylon, but how to keep it dead, how to stop it from resurrecting. If we know how to do that, then I'd have to assume that we would then know how to hurt them not just individually, but as a species, as a civilization."

"Huh?"

"I work with Ms. Valerii not to learn how to hurt cylons, or damage cylons, or even destroy cylons… I work with her to learn how to make war against the cylons, how to destroy their civilization as they did to humans, how to eradicate them as a species the way they seem to want to do with humans. That's my goal. If we can show we can hurt them as terribly as they hurt us, then maybe…" Drake's voice trailed off as he suddenly appeared lost in his own thoughts.

"Maybe they'll leave us alone," Helo suggested.

"Perhaps. But to get to that point, I think we need Ms. Valerii's cooperation. I like having you in the room with me so that she feels comfortable, as if she has a choice to work with us instead of being a prisoner who's being interrogated." Drake seemed to relax as Helo finally lowered his weapon, sliding it into the holster on his hip. "But beneath that comfort, I need her to feel as if there's still the hint of danger, that if she stalls indefinitely there will be consequences. As Ares might say, you get farther with a kind word and a gun than you do with just a kind word. I need Ms. Valerii to believe that I'm capable of violence, that I'm capable of hurting her. Every time you protest, every time you challenge my authority, it weakens my position… it weakens humanity's position. Because remember, Lieutenant, she's not just the mother of your child; she's also the one and only prisoner we have, the sole source of intelligence that may help prevent humanity's extinction."

"So you want me to be quiet."

"That's what I wanted before," Drake replied with a shrug. "The quieter, more obedient, more uncharacteristically docile you were, the more Ms. Valerii might react to the tension in the room. I fear that maybe now that tension may be lessened somewhat."

"I could act like I--"

"No," Drake interrupted. "She knows you too well; she'd know you were faking. No, Ms. Valerii needs to fear me and what I'm capable of doing. She needs to see me at my worst."

"You swore you wouldn't hurt her," Helo reminded the doctor, his hand slowly inching back toward his hip.

"Yes, I did," Drake admitted.

Helo never even saw the punch coming. One moment he was staring Drake down, preparing himself to draw his sidearm if necessary; the next moment he was doubled over on the floor, feeling as if the punch had actually been a cannonball shot to his stomach. Helo gasped for air, doubled over on the floor, when he felt Drake pull the pistol from his holster. _Oh, frak…_

"I will not endanger my research by putting Ms. Valerii at risk," Drake assured Helo. "You have my word on that, Lieutenant, and I will not go back on my word. But as I said, Ms. Valerii must have at least a small degree of fear; she must understand what I'm capable of doing. She'll have that reminder every time she looks at you."

"I'm gonna frakking ki--" Helo's threat was cut off when Drake kicked him in the face. A heavy, coppery taste filled Helo's mouth, and his head was swimming. Spots clouded his vision, and he felt pieces of at least two teeth sloshing around in the blood in his mouth.

"Don't think I enjoy this, Lieutenant," Drake said, "because I truly don't. In fact, the only comfort I have is that I know full well you're more than willing to take this beating if it means the cylon and your baby will be safe."

Helo kept silent, but admitted to himself that about that much, at least, Drake was correct.

"Ms. Valerii is this fleet's golden goose, and I will not have her harmed or carved up. But you, Lieutenant… I have no qualms about making an example of you."

_To be continued……………………………_


	11. Need to Know

Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

-------------------------------------------------

**Author's Note:** Thanks to **Elentari2** for beta duties on the third scene. She's a great one to ask when I'm wondering if what I wrote made any kind sense whatsoever.

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**XI – Need to Know**

"Mr. President," Adama said with a perfunctory nod.

"Admiral," Baltar replied with a nod of his own. "Interesting place for a meeting," Baltar commented with a glance around the Raptor. The only other person onboard was Racetrack, freshly off her reassignment to head the presidential transport detail, and she was conspicuously disinterested in the conversation.

"Things being what they are, I didn't want anyone to know we were meeting," Adama admitted. _Things being what they are,_ he thought with amusement. No doubt Baltar thinks I'm referring to his political problems, while all I can think about is the infinite number of ways my operation could still get fouled up.

"So why all the secrecy?" the president asked.

"It's because of the topic of discussion," Adama said, deciding to get right to the heart of the matter. Their cover story was that Baltar was indulging in the pomp of the office by making his first presidential review of one of the warships – in this case, the recently dragooned _Aether_. Adama had ordered the _Aether_ as far away from Colonial One as possible, but he still knew he had only a matter of minutes to say all that needed to be said.

"And what is the topic, Admiral?"

"I'm planning to launch a military operation," Adama said.

"A military operation," Baltar repeated. "You mean an attack."

"Yes."

"Where? Against what?"

"That's classified," Adama said, ignoring his brief amusement at the dumbfounded look on Baltar's face.

"Classified?" Baltar asked. "I'm the president."

"Yes, you are," Adama agreed.

"I expect to be filled in, Admiral."

"This is a military operation conducted by military personnel," Adama explained. "Tactics were never within the purview of the civilian government."

"But strategy was," Baltar responded curtly. "If I decide on a strategy of steady retreat, then you have no business organizing tactical offensive battle plans."

"The decision of whether to attack is a military decision, Mr. President."

"And unless you're planning on taking the entire fleet with you, your attack involves leaving the civilian ships defenseless."

"That's correct."

"Given that the entire human population lives on these unarmed ships, I think your decision to abandon them to satisfy your lust for combat makes this rather more than a simple military decision."

"My lust for combat," Adama grumbled angrily, unconcerned with the possibility of offending the president with his attitude. "Is that what I've been serving by retreating all these months? Is it my lust for combat that made me run away from the Colonies with my tail tucked firmly between my legs?" He watched the president closely for any non-verbal clue to the man's thoughts, surprised at how quickly Baltar withered under his stare.

"Perhaps my words could have been chosen better," Baltar relented.

"Perhaps."

"What's the target?" Baltar asked, wringing his hands nervously as he tried to regain some semblance of authority in the conversation.

"New type of cylon ship," Adama explained, trying to keep the details to himself. "We're still figuring out the specifics, actually."

"Is this a preemptive strike, Admiral?"

"You're asking whether we could avoid this battle," Adama surmised.

"As I explained, I'm not comfortable with leaving the vast majority of our remaining population defenseless during your attack," Baltar said.. "And that's assuming you win, survive, and make it back to us. There's still the possibility that _Galactica_ could be destroyed."

"I wouldn't risk it if I wasn't completely confident." Adama focused his efforts on keeping his face an unreadable mask; he hated to admit it, but he was impressed at Baltar's ability to rebound from his anxious insecurity and take a more aggressive posture in their exchange.

"But you can't guarantee victory, can you?"

"No," Adama admitted. "It's going to be a battle, Mr. President. Anything could happen."

"So you see my position."

"Of course," Adama said. He had hoped to avoid this, but he saw now that there was no other alternative. _It's all or nothing,_ he decided. "I see your current position quite well."

"Meaning?" the president asked, catching Adama's implication that he was open to discussing more than just military matters.

"You've been having problems with the Quorum," Adama responded, rubbing his eyes wearily so that he wouldn't have to look Baltar in the eye as he made his offer. "I might be able to help relieve some of the tension."

"I'm listening," Baltar said.

"You let me conduct my operation, and when the shooting's done, I'll come back and do everything I can to help you put an end to Zarek's games." Once he was done speaking, he finally settled an unnerving stare on the president.

"Interesting," Baltar commented, this time holding up far better under the admiral's gaze. "There are a great many people who respect you, Admiral, who have a great deal of faith in you. You can count me one of them. I simply hope this operation is successful enough to justify that faith."

"Thank you, Mr. President," Adama said. "My people will get it done."

-------------------------------------------------

"Deacon, sit down," Tom Zarek said, motioning to the leather chair in front of his desk. The young man made himself comfortable as Zarek looked him over. _He's still hungry to prove himself,_ he noted, satisfied that Deacon was not one of those men who settled for making a good first impression. _He's in it for the long haul, just like I need him to be._

"What do you need?" Deaq asked.

"I need you to watch someone for me."

"That's it?" Deaq looked surprised that the request was so simple.

"This isn't any ordinary person," Zarek assured him. "I need you to watch Ellen Tigh."

"Colonel Tigh's wife."

"Yes," Zarek confirmed. "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all."

"She's almost always in public places, and any soldiers in the room have a way of noticing her and keeping their eyes on her," Zarek explained. "The colonel made it perfectly clear that he was not pleased with her ending up in the middle of a hostage crisis, and everyone's looking for a way to advance his career by being the first one to save Ellen from harm."

"I understand," Deaq said. "I have to be one of many people watching her, and I have to make sure that I remain unobserved by Ellen and by all of the people watching out for her."

"Exactly."

"Is there anything in particular that I'm watching for?"

"I want to know who she meets with," Zarek said, thinking back on the message he'd intercepted from Major Rutger. "If possible, I want you to find out what she's doing, and I want to know if she's not sharing everything she finds out."

"You think she's holding out on you?"

"I have concerns," Zarek admitted. Since getting off of the _Astral Queen_, Zarek had accrued power not only through providing favors and doling out the occasional helping of violence, but by amassing a large network of informants. As always, information was power, and he made a point of knowing more than anyone else. Having Ellen Tigh keep things from not only weakened his position, but also increased the likelihood that Ellen would be able to start developing an agenda of her own. Zarek had always accepted that Ellen liked to play games of her own choosing, and he had always tolerated her diversions in exchange for the information she provided, but that arrangement had been made under the assumption that her schemes would never affect his. _And now I can't be sure._

"And if you can't trust her?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Zarek answered noncommittally. "Keep in mind that she's the XO's wife. I don't want you getting any ideas about taking some initiative. You're only to watch her – nothing else."

"I understand," Deaq assured him. "But if it turns out that she's playing you?"

"Then more may be expected of you," Zarek said. "But like I told you – we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

-------------------------------------------------

"At ease," Starbuck said, noting that her words only seemed to increase the tension in the briefing room. She didn't need to turn around and look at the tactical photos posted to the wall behind her to remind herself why everyone in front of her was on edge. _This is it,_ she told herself. _This isn't a desperate scavenging mission at an abandoned Colonial weapons cache, or a raid on a small-scale cylon fuel depot. This is an all-out tactical assault, the _Galactica_ leading two support ships and all of its Vipers into combat. A lot of these pilots were civilians the last time we were in a pitched battle against the cylons… no way to know how they'll react._

Despite her best intentions, she found herself staring at the empty chair in the middle of the front row. _The seat for the highest-ranking pilot after the CAG._ The pilots had kept the seat vacant since Apollo's death. _It's not like we can't afford an empty seat here and there, anyway,_ Starbuck admitted silently, taking a deep breath to settle her nerves, trying not to think about how much faster it would be to count the full seats than the empty ones.

"Viper pilots are heading down to the flight deck as soon as we're done here," Starbuck explained, "so that any cylon spies won't have time to figure out what we're doing and get some kind of warning to their comrades. Raptor pilots will make a short stop for an additional briefing with Colonel Tigh and Major Rutger. We'll all launch within the hour."

"What is that?" Kat asked, predictably the first one to break protocol. She was pointing toward the tactical photos of what Sharon had labeled the Resurrection Ship, and Starbuck silently thanked the gods that Kat's question helped her get right into the nuts and bolts of the pre-op briefing.

"That's our primary target," Starbuck answered. "Our intelligence indicates that that ship is the cylons' greatest asset out here. It's what they call a Resurrection Ship, and it helps keep them alive. It and its escort are currently in geo-synchronous orbit around a planet we've designated LV-426."

"How does it keep them alive?" Kat asked.

"You've probably all heard the rumors that the cylons can download their consciousnesses from a destroyed body into a new one, and that rumor is true," Starbuck replied, unable to stifle an inappropriate grin as the admiral entered the back of the room, a proud smile spread across his face as he gestured her to continue as if wasn't there. "This far from the Colonies and their own home bases, they can't download unless they have a specially designed and equipped ship; this is that ship.

"From what we've been able to learn – we take this out, and the cylons stop getting extra lives. We take this out, and the cylons start dying for good."

"Just like us," Hotdog said.

"Yeah," Starbuck agreed, trying not to dwell on the fact that some of the faces in front of her wouldn't be there the next time they had a briefing. "But this operation is far more complicated than just destroying that ship," Starbuck continued.

She turned and looked over the array of photos on the wall. "The Resurrection Ship doesn't appear to be heavily armed or armored, but it has an escort. It's orbiting what appears to be a cylon outpost and weapons cache on the planet below. Getting photos of the planet surface was tough, but after looking over what we have, we guess there are four squadrons of cylon raiders planetside." She pointed at two large hangars on the surface that they presumed housed the cylon fighters.

Starbuck took a deep breath before she added the last part. "In addition, there are four basestars."

"What?" Kat asked, an incredulous sigh escaping her chest as she stared in stunned disbelief. "The _Galactica_ against four basestars, a cylon outpost, and whatever defenses that Resurrection Ship has?"

"Yes." Starbuck looked over her pilots and knew that while Kat was alone in expressing surprise and uncertainty, she was definitely not alone in her sentiments.

"So what's the plan?" Ares asked from his customary seat in the back row. His voice was calm and professional; he seemed as unconcerned with the coming attack as he likely would be if Starbuck had instead announced the pilots were going to repaint the flight deck.

"Right," Starbuck said, smiling as practically every pilot in the room turned around to look at Ares like he was crazy. "The plan is relatively simple," she explained. "We're dividing our Vipers into two strike forces – red and gold. I'll head gold squadron; Catman, you have red."

"Right," Catman said.

"Gold squadron will fly into the planet's atmosphere and give cover to the Raptors and cargo shuttles that'll fly marines down to the surface."

"Why are we using troops?" Kat asked.

"We're hoping to use the confusion as cover to grab some supplies from the weapons cache on the planet," Starbuck explained. She didn't bother to mention that the supplies included two-dozen nuclear warheads. "There'll be six of us in gold squadron. The rest of you will stay up above to give _Galactica_ as much cover as you can."

"We don't even know how many raiders each of those basestars carries," Kat pointed out. "How long do we have to last to get the mission completed?"

"Unknown," Starbuck answered curtly, though she also grinned slightly when she realized that Kat had obviously resigned herself to the situation and was looking for a way to get the job done. "But what we do know is that the basestars themselves are extremely lightly armed compared to a battlestar. They have missiles for long-range combat, but they rely on their raiders for short-range defense. If _Galactica_ gets close, it'll tear the cylons to pieces with its KEW cannons and short-range weapons."

"But it has to get that close," Kat commented. "How, exactly, are we supposed to pull this off?"

"Listen up," Starbuck snapped, "because we don't have time to go over this twice. We've already considered the possibilities and our tactics. The basic plan is simple – _Galactica_ jumps in and launches its ships. Gold squadron and the transports will go to the surface. Red squadron will stay close, taking up a purely defensive posture.

"Now Kat," Starbuck said, staring down the other pilot, "you'll have jumped into the area first in the Blackbird."

"I'm gonna do what!" Kat asked with wide eyes, clearly shocked that she'd been singled out for something important. And potentially suicidal.

"A good deal of our attack depends on you, so pay attention," Starbuck said, trying not to focus on the fact that if Apollo were still alive, he would be leading the Vipers and if would be Kara, not Kat, who would be flying the Blackbird. "We expect that the Resurrection Ship will jump out as soon as _Galactica_ arrives, and obviously we don't want that to happen. So one of your objectives is to frag the FTL drives," Starbuck explained, pointing to several targets on the Resurrection Ship.

"One of my objectives?" Kat asked.

"Before you do that, we need you to drop a signal beacon," Starbuck answered. "It's been specially designed for this mission – one single, high-energy pulse that _Galactica_ can use as a target for a jump."

"Got it," Kat responded with a nod, and Starbuck was surprised to see that she did.

_But not everyone does,_ she reminded herself, knowing she would have to spell it out for the others. "Like I already explained, the basestars are vulnerable in short-range combat, but they can pummel the _Galactica_ from long-range. The signal beacon will allow the _Galactica_ to jump in as close as possible. Without it, she'd jump in and start getting nuked, and even if _Galactica_ somehow survived that, the Vipers flying around her would be vaporized. The only way this works is if we jump in as close to gun-range as possible. Understand?" she asked the pilots, hoping they were starting to realize that the attack might not be as crazy as they'd first thought.

"Now, like I said, Kat, you'll be taking out the Resurrection Ship's FTL drive as soon as _Galactica_ jumps in," Starbuck said, once again focusing her attention on Kat. "That'll be the end of your responsibilities. The _Galactica_ and our Vipers can take care of the rest, so don't get heroic. Just do your job and get out of there."

"Got it," Kat said.

"Because the Blackbird is rigged for silent running – our pilots aren't going to be able to see you any better than the cylons will, so you'll have to watch out for friendly fire."

"And you're sure the cylons won't see me?" Kat asked.

"How do you think we got all this tactical info?" Starbuck responded with a devilish grin.

"Cool," Kat muttered.

"Now for the rest of you, this is important – the third and fourth basestars are orbiting on the other side of the planet, making sure no one can jump in unseen on the opposite side of the planet and get the drop on the cylons. We figure it'll take between three and seven minutes for the other ships to join the fight. One of them has been in combat and has extensive damage, but we believe it's at least partially capable of combat operations; the other one, of course, is fully prepared for battle. The first two battlestars _have_ to be destroyed or neutralized before the other basestars join the fight; otherwise, there's no way the _Galactica_ will be able to hold them off. With the numbers we're facing, it won't take long to go from wrong to catastrophic, so we all have to be as close to perfect as we can be."

"What do you mean, neutralized?" Catman asked. "How do you neutralize a basestar?"

"New weapons technology," Starbuck answered. "I doubt anyone on the ship hasn't heard about Dr. Drake, the engineer who's been interrogating Sharon Valerii. Drake is a weapons designer, and he cooked up a weapon that should disable the cylon ships; unfortunately, like the kinetic weapon cannons, they're short-range weapons. What they lack in range they make up for with target area – it's a wide dispersion weapon, so we'll be able to hit the basestars and their raiders."

"If we get close enough," Catman commented.

"Yeah, if we get close enough," Starbuck confirmed, giving a sideways glance to Kat to remind her once again, as if she needed it, of the huge role she was playing. "We constructed four large prototype cannons on the _Archimedes_," Starbuck continued. "The _Galactica_ is being fit with two them, one fore and one aft, as we speak. The _Myrmidon_ and the _Aether_ are each getting one of the others. The two support ships are due to jump in once the basestars have committed to battle with _Galactica_. The idea is to get them pinned in the planet's gravity well, and then pound them with our ships. Simple hammer and anvil maneuver."

"And the other basestars?" Catman asked.

"Like I said, the first two have to be either destroyed or neutralized by the time the other two get a firing solution on the _Galactica_," Starbuck answered. They'd considered countless alternatives while planning the operation, from keeping the Resurrection Ship intact but crippled and using that as a shield, to opening up the battle with a full salvo of every nuke _Galactica_ had left in its stores, and they kept coming back to one simple fact – they had too few resources to get creative. _Just take out what we can, and hope we do it fast enough,_ she remembered the admiral saying as she, Tigh, and Ares kept proposing alternate strategies.

"Well, assuming we get the first two destroyed before the second two get us in their sights, what do we plan to do?" Catman asked, pressing the issue.

"That's going to be a straight-up fight," Starbuck answered, trying not to grimace as she said the words. "The _Galactica_, _Myrmidon_, and _Aether_ against one-and-a-half basestars." She knew Catman's concerns – she had the same ones, herself – but she trusted the admiral when he said he had an ace up his sleeve, and that the situation wasn't as dire as it appeared. _He wouldn't go into a battle like this unless he knew he could win,_ Starbuck assured herself, consciously avoiding any of the thoughts she'd had that maybe grief over the loss of Lee was causing the Old Man to get careless, or even reckless.

A collective groan rose from the pilots, and that was when the admiral strode to the front of the room. "Stow it," he growled, glaring at each of the suddenly respectful – and fairly intimidated – faces in front of him. "We have a mission to do, and every man, woman, and child in this fleet needs us to do our best. As long as we do that, and as long as we stick to the plan, we can get this done. Of that, I assure you."

"Yes sir," Ares said from the back, rising from his chair and snapping the admiral a salute.

Kat was next on her feet, Catman only a blink of an eye slower. Within seconds everyone in the briefing room was standing, each one of them a statue, frozen in mid-salute.

"As you were," Adama said, turning on his heel and striding toward the door. "I'll be in C.I.C.," he called out to Starbuck, who could only stand and marvel at the unquestioning loyalty and admiration the admiral commanded from his troops.

-------------------------------------------------

"Do they look nervous to you?" Starbuck asked Colonel Tigh, surprised that she was turning to him for an opinion. _Maybe Ares struck a nerve when he compared me and Tigh._

"Yeah," Tigh grumbled. "Better get them into their Vipers before they piss themselves."

"Huh?" Starbuck asked incredulously, turning to stare at the XO. She'd heard him make many off-color, inappropriate comments over the years, but never to her. _They were always at or about me, not to me._

"They'll be fine once we make the jump and you launch," Tigh assured her.

"Yeah," Starbuck agreed, suddenly realizing that she had her own nerves to start dealing with. _I'm the CAG by default,_ she reminded herself. _I'm not some grizzled veteran who's done this a hundred times. Tigh and the Old Man are the only ones who qualify for that distinction. Other than Ragnar and Chiron, I haven't been in more than three battles that didn't involve launching as one of the alert fighters. It's different when you have time to sit around thinking about what you're getting yourself into._

"You'll be fine, too," Tigh commented, almost as if he could suddenly read her mind.

"Yeah," Starbuck muttered. "So the admiral send you down here to see us off?"

"That's the story," Tigh responded. "Fact is that there's a problem with the cylon prisoner."

"Sharon?"

Tigh nodded, clearly disappointed that Starbuck had taken to calling the cylon by name.

"What's wrong?"

"She was just transferred to medical," Tigh said. "She started to hemorrhage."

"You tell Helo?"

"No," Tigh answered. "The admiral is leaving that up to you."

"What do you mean?"

"Pilots, ECO's, and marines are loading up," Tigh said. "_Galactica's_ about five minutes away from our jump, and then we're going in. The Old Man said it's your call – can you do without Helo?"

"Frak," Starbuck hissed. "How bad's the situation?"

"Don't know for sure, but Cottle said he may have to deliver the… baby," he spat, uncomfortable with the word he was forced to use.

"Frak," Starbuck repeated. She looked across the deck and caught sight of Helo right away, badly bruised face and all, running his hand along the wing of his Raptor, clearly thrilled by his promotion to pilot. _We're in dire enough straits to turn our veteran ECO's into rookie pilots, and then replace them with anyone who has computer experience. Frak…_ "No," Starbuck decided. "We're prepping to launch; it's too late to tell him. With any luck, he'll land to find a child waiting for him."

"Uh-huh," Tigh responded, still unhappy with Starbuck's thoughts regarding Sharon and Helo's baby.

"That all, Sir?"

"No," Tigh said. He looked Starbuck up and down, and a thin smile crossed his lips. "You've done a good job planning this," he told her, extending his hand.

"Thank you," Starbuck said, finding herself shaking Tigh's hand before she really knew what she was doing. _It's almost surreal._

"Don't be surprised by anything you see out there," Tigh advised her.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just what I told you," Tigh said. "The Old Man's not out of tricks yet; expect the unexpected."

"Umm… okay," Starbuck said, slowly walking away from Tigh and toward her Viper. She made eye contact with as many of her pilots as she could, giving a thumbs-up or a supportive nod wherever she thought it necessary. She tried not to feel guilty when she saw Helo wave to her from the pilot's seat in his Raptor, and then she finally climbed up the ladder to her own Viper.

"Here we go," she muttered to herself, her hand closing over the lighter that the admiral had lent to her. "Showtime."

_To be continued……………………………_


	12. Securing the Future

Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**XII – Securing the Future…**

Kat's stomach lurched as the starfield in front of her shifted, stretched, and then came back into focus, different than it had been before she'd made the FTL jump. "I've arrived at the LV-426 system," she said for the benefit of her flight recorder. A quick glance around the Blackbird allowed her eyes to tell her most of what her sensors were now reporting. "The cylon ships are still deployed just as they were in our reconnaissance photos. I'm picking up a nearby cylon patrol, but they don't seem to see me. So far."

She lightly tapped her thrusters and picked up speed, never laying on the engines long enough to provide a significant heat source for the cylons to detect. The silence in the cockpit was eerie, and she found herself giving more updates than she usually would, finding the sound of her own voice comforting.

"I'm not picking up the other two basestars; I can only assume the planet is blocking them, though maybe we'll be in luck and find out they're not here anymore," she commented with a smile.

Kat watched the cylon capital ships for a few minutes, quickly determining that they were all in a very high orbit around the planet. She started moving again, increasing speed until she was holding steady behind the cylon targets. Once that was accomplished, she released the beacon, leaving it to drift through space on its own. As soon as the beacon was away, a digital timer lit up on her console, the numbers displayed in bright red, counting down the minutes until the beacon activated.

"Beacon's away," she reported. "As long as the cylons don't deviate from their current orbital course within the next few minutes, everything should be fine. I'm going to move in and get into guns range."

Her eyes kept darting from the timer to the intimidating sight of the cylon ships in front of her, all three of them growing steadily larger, blocking out more and more of the stars around her. She kept approaching closer, until finally her distance from the Resurrection Ship could be measured in meters.

The ship's hull was impossibly smooth, and Kat found her mind wandering as she caught herself counting dozen, hundreds, even thousands of replacement cylon bodies, all of them visible as she slowly floated by.

Her DRADIS screen suddenly flickered, punctuated by a crackle of static that pierced her ears. _That's the beacon,_ she realized, having been warned that her ship's systems would detect the energy burst, though they, and hopefully the cylons, wouldn't be able to identify the source or its meaning. _At least not until it's too late._

Kat flipped a switch and the digital timer on her console reset to three minutes, the numbers now displayed in blue. _One minute for the signal to reach our ships, two minutes to make the modifications to Gaeta's initial calculations, and a blink of the eye for _Galactica_ to make the trip. Then it's game time._

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Admiral Adama didn't need to look at any of the readouts to know that his ship had just jumped into a war zone – the anxious intensity from his command crew, rolling through C.I.C. like storm-driven waves, told the story plainly enough.

"Any word from sick bay?" he asked Tigh, ignoring his XO's incredulous stare. "Any word on Sharon?" the admiral clarified.

"Last I heard, the cylon was still alive," Tigh grunted, devoting far more attention to the tactical displays than he was to Adama's concerns over Sharon Valerii. "I think they're going to deliver the baby early."

"Good," Adama said with a nod. _Maybe Sharon's still connected to the cylons, and maybe she's not, but if there's anything they're likely to pick up on, it's that child being born. And I can't imagine they're going to destroy the Galactica if doing so will vaporize the child… not after all of the things Sharon has said. No… they won't shoot to kill. Not as long as they think they have any choice._ He kept his thoughts to himself, though, afraid that speaking them aloud might tempt the fates to throw him a curveball.

"Gold squadron's away," Dee said loudly over the growing din in C.I.C.

"Targets are locking on," Gaeta reported.

"Are the basestars in range yet?" Adama asked.

"Only to missiles," Gaeta answered. "And I'm detecting an energy spike in the Resurrection Ship.

"All ahead full," Adama ordered.

"We're a minute away from having them in range of our guns," Tigh muttered. "We're damn close, but not close enough."

_Still more than we could have hoped for under most circumstances,_ Adama decided, reminding himself to give Gaeta a commendation for his miracle-working on the astrogation computer. "Reset forward guns for interception fire," Adama ordered. "Open fire with all missile batteries."

"We have an incoming salvo," Tigh reported.

"Keep red squadron in the tubes until we know there won't be any nukes," Adama said, hoping that the ships in gold squadron would reach the safety of the atmosphere soon enough not to be destroyed if his hunch was wrong and the cylons came at them with everything they had.

"No nukes," Tigh reported. The ship shuddered with a few impacts, though most of the cylon missiles were destroyed before they got close enough to do any damage. "They're launching raiders."

"Hold our fighters a few seconds more," Adama said. "Just in case." He knew he didn't need to explain his concerns to his XO – Tigh was a seasoned enough officer to suspect that the cylons might launch just enough raiders to bait _Galactica_ into launching its Vipers. Then one or two nukes would be enough to remove all of _Galactica's_ fighters, and the cylons could cut them to pieces with their raiders.

"The raiders are advancing on us," Tigh said. "It's not a bluff."

"Launch Vipers."

"The _Aether_ just jumped in," Gaeta reported.

_I have a few aces up my sleeve,_ Adama remembered telling Starbuck. _Here's the first._ "Dualla, order all ships to switch to emergency frequency zeta."

"Yes, sir," Dee said, passing on the order to red and gold squadrons.

"Order the _Aether_ to execute Operation White Squall," Adama told Dee once she had finished relaying his previous order.

"Hope this works," Tigh said.

"Yeah."

"I'm picking up widespread communications disruption," Dee reported, the uncharacteristically high pitch of her voice betraying her panic. "We have static across all channels."

"We still have contact with our ships?" Adama asked calmly.

"Yes," she confirmed a moment later, obviously surprised. "The channel is a little garbled, but it's clear enough."

"It's working," Tigh said, gazing intently at the DRADIS screen.

Adama nodded, already seeing the same thing as his XO. The cylon raiders were cut off from their basestars and each other. _They may get better with every battle – whether they get destroyed or not – but they're still inexperienced. And now every single one of them will have to act on its own, with no coordination possible. From what Drake said, Sharon described them as animals. Well, now they're like animals subjected to a disorienting, high-frequency whistle, and there's no way to reach each of them to get them under control._ Adama sighed for the moment, satisfied that the _Aether_ – a long range scout ship that was unique for its highly advanced communications array, needed to communicate over extremely long distances – had succeeded in its primary mission objective.

"Reading several small explosions aboard the Resurrection Ship," Gaeta shouted from his station. "Looks like Kat got her job done."

"So far so good," Adama said, poring over the tactical board.

"We're still vastly outnumbered," Tigh pointed out.

"But our Vipers can work together," Adama countered. "I'll take that trade any day. Especially when that Resurrection Ship isn't going anywhere."

"We're moving into guns range," Tigh said.

"Let them have it," Adama ordered.

-------------------------------------------------

"Brace for contact with the atmosphere," Starbuck said over the wireless, momentarily remembering the first time she hit an atmosphere at combat speed – she'd been trying to work a small piece of shredded carrot from between two of her teeth, and she almost ended up biting off the tip of her tongue when her Viper left the vacuum of space and slammed into a wall of thin air.

She grunted as her Viper entered the atmosphere, and heard a similar sound from the other pilots over the wireless. She glanced quickly at the DRADIS, making certain that everyone was with her. _So far, so good,_ she told herself. The six Vipers will still in formation around the transports, with the _Chimera_ bringing up the rear. Starbuck was just about to say a quick word of congratulations when she picked up several other signals climbing toward them.

"Bogeys," she warned her pilots. "Gold 2 and 3, you're with me. The rest of you, cover the shuttles and Raptors all the way down; if you're really good, maybe we'll save a couple of raiders for you."

"Copy," Ares said, taking command of the ships that would continue to the ground.

Starbuck let a thrilled chuckle escape her lips as she hit her thrusters, her breath suddenly crushed from her chest when with the increased G-forces. "Form up on my wings," she ordered as soon as she could talk again. "Four targets, guys. Hit them hard and fast; clear the road for our ships."

-------------------------------------------------

"Damage report," the admiral said, aware of a burst of red warning lights displayed across the ship status board. He felt a shudder run through the floor as another red light sprang to life, reporting that a small section amidships had depressurized.

"The hull's holding for the most part," Tigh replied. "But I don't know how much more the flight pods can take."

"Retract them," Adama ordered.

"What?" Tigh asked, clearly surprised at the order while the Vipers were still in the air. "Our ships--"

"--They'll be fine," Adama answered, cutting Tigh off. "There's a planet with a breathable atmosphere below. Besides, there'll be other places to land if we need them," he added with a meaningful look.

Tigh nodded before saying, "The _Myrmidon_ just arrived."

"Order the _Myrmidon_ to start using its ion cannon," Adama told Dee, having her relay the message. "Same thing for the _Aether_."

"And us?" Tigh asked.

"Let's see if it works, first," Adama answered. _Just in case something goes wrong and the cannons blow up._

"Get a targeting solution for the ion cannons," Tigh told Gaeta as the other two ships started firing without any adverse consequences. "Widest possible dispersion."

It only took Gaeta a few moments. "Ready," he reported.

"Fire," Adama ordered.

Light flashed around the ships, and the admiral could clearly see static discharges amongst the raiders, arcing from one cylon ship to the next. For a few moments he feared that some of the Vipers would be caught in the blast, but he tried to dismiss his concerns. _Drake assured us that Colonial technology would only be temporarily disabled, not completely fried the way cylons are. Our pilots will simply need to restart and wait for the generators to power up their systems. Assuming every raider in their vicinity is out of commission, they shouldn't be in any danger._

The cylon raiders were immediately affected; many of the small ships immediately stopped maneuvering, and each of them continued on in a straight line along whatever vector they'd been traveling at the time they were disabled. Some drifted off into space, while many more were snagged in the planet's gravity well and plummeted toward obliteration on the surface.

"I don't know how much more of this we can take," Tigh commented, well aware that while the majority of cylon raiders were being immobilized, there were still dozens that were putting up a hell of a fight.

"She'll hold together," Adama said confidently, wincing slightly as the shuddering in the floors and walls became harder to ignore. "Reset the ion cannons for concentrated fire and target those basestars. We only have minutes before reinforcements show up."

-------------------------------------------------

_Now I get it,_ Helo thought as he sat at the controls of his Raptor, pinned in his seat by G-forces as he led the way toward the planet surface. _No wonder Sharon loved it so much._

He stared at his DRADIS screen and smiled as Starbuck and her two wingmen engaged the approaching cylon raiders several kilometers below. One of the cylon blips disappeared almost immediately, and another quickly followed. _Starbuck brought her A-game,_ Helo thought happily. No sooner had he thought that than he realized she would need it.

"Picking up a group of DRADIS contacts behind us," he said.

"Confirmed," Ares replied. "Reading eight cylon raiders. They broke off from the fight above us."

"Several more are taking off from the airfield, too," Helo added.

"Fun," Ares joked. "Everyone hit your thrusters; we have to hit the rest of those raiders while they're still on the ground. They launch many more and we're dead."

"We're finishing up down here," Starbuck reported. "Gold 4, 5, and 6, break off and slow down those raiders coming in from orbit. I'm on my way up to you. Gold 2 and 3, hit those raiders that just took off, then support Ares and the Raptors when they take out the airfields."

_Unbelievable,_ Helo thought as he kept his eye on the DRADIS screen, went through everything he'd have to do when they reached the airfields, and kept his Raptor on course at the head of the line of ships in the landing party. _One little mistake and I'm dead, but I've never felt so alive. Gods, I love being a pilot._

-------------------------------------------------

"It's gone," Tigh said evenly, though the admiral heard a strong undercurrent of relief in his XO's voice.

"Status report," Adama ordered as he watched the second basestar explode.

"Two of our sub-light engines are off-line," Tigh reported. "Armor plating is severely damaged in several sections, and we're looking at possible decompression in both flight pods. We also lost the aft ion cannon to a cylon raider suicide run."

"Damn," Adama muttered. _Maybe they won't destroy us, but they probably figure they can cripple us, board us, take Sharon and her child, and then finish us off at their leisure._

"The Resurrection Ship's been caught in the planet's gravity," Gaeta reported. "It's going down, sir."

"How many Vipers we lose?" Adama asked as he looked at one of the screens, taking no small degree of satisfaction in the sight of the cylon Resurrection Ship breaking apart in the upper atmosphere.

"Red squadron lost five Vipers," Dee reported, "though two of the pilots punched out."

"Keep a fix on them," Adama told her. "We'll pick them up as soon as the fighting's done."

"New contacts," Gaeta called out. "The other basestars are coming in."

_They aren't giving us a moment's rest,_ Adama cursed silently.

"They're in a low orbit," Tigh added.

"Perfect," Adama said, looking at the DRADIS screen, thankful for a stroke of luck. The two basestars had fallen into a low, high-speed orbit in order to get to the battle as quickly as possible. _And while they got here sooner than I would have liked, they've pinned themselves low against the planet's atmosphere. They probably think they can fight their way out of the position… they're in for a surprise._

"The _Myrmidon_ is pulling back," Tigh said.

Adama nodded; the _Myrmidon_ had taken a pounding, and truth be told, he knew they were lucky the ship was still in one piece. "Have the _Aether_ send the signal," the admiral said.

"Aye, contacting _Aether_," Gaeta replied, confirming the order. He relayed the command, and then nodded to the admiral. "Commencing countdown," he said. A digital timer, displayed in blue, started counting down from sixty seconds.

"Hold position," Adama ordered. "Order red squadron into defensive positions, and rotate the ship ninety degrees port to show them our starboard side," he added, hoping that he could prevent any further damage to at least one of the ship's flight pods.

"Basestar Gamma is firing missiles, and Delta is launching raiders," Tigh said.

"Just a few more seconds," Adama said, hoping the point defense guns would take care of the incoming missiles. _At least our guess seems to have been right – Basestar Delta isn't fully operational. We only have one basestar's missiles to contend with._

"No radiological warnings," Tigh reported.

_Another stroke of good luck,_ Adama noted. Two of the missiles made it through, and Adama muttered a few well-chosen epithets when he saw that Basestar Gamma was also launching raiders.

"The first group of raiders is entering firing range," Tigh pointed out.

"Which means they won't get back to defend their basestars in time," Adama responded, watching the timer reach zero.

"Admiral, new contact!" Gaeta shouted, gazing at the DRADIS screen in open-mouthed horror. There was no mistaking the arrival of another capital ship.

"Game over," Adama said with a sigh.

-------------------------------------------------

"Oh, frak," Starbuck cursed. She felt it before the blinking lights and screaming alert sirens went off in the cockpit – she was going down. "Mayday," Starbuck gasped as her Viper went into a flat spin and the wind was knocked out of her. Any additional distress calls were forgotten in favor of ejecting. "I'm punching out, _Galactica_."

She struggled for the eject lever and felt her hand slip over a slender piece of metal. The G-forces pinned her back in her seat, unable to see what she was holding, but she was reasonably certain her hand was in the right place. She yanked back as hard as she could; a moment later the canopy shot off, and seconds after that she was blown up into the air.

Her crippled Viper plummeted beneath her, breaking up as it fell, but Starbuck hardly noticed; she was too busy calculating her chances of being picked off by a cylon raider before her parachute reached the ground.

"Gold leader," she heard Hotdog call out over the wireless.

"I'm out," Starbuck said. "Our ships make it down?"

"The ground crews all made it," Hotdog confirmed. "I'm bringing the Vipers back up to cover you guys."

"Roger."

"Make it quick," Joker said. "We're totally defensive."

"Frak," Starbuck cursed. She knew that the cylons would launch several more raiders from the ground before Ares' group could destroy the airfield, but she hadn't expected what looked like at least half of a squadron. _Joker, Snake, and Highball are outnumbered at least five-to-one up there._

"Frak me…" Snake cursed, unable to hide the terror in his voice. "I'm reading a full squadron closing on us from above."

_We're all dead,_ Starbuck realized. _We never accounted for that many raiders from the basestars making it down here to support the base. Something went very wrong up there._

"What the frak?" Joker said. "Friend-or-Foe system lists them as friendlies."

"What?" Starbuck asked, wondering why the cylons would tap into the Colonial systems like that. _It's not like we wouldn't know it's a trick; it's not like we'd overlook them and let them get close enough to shoot us down._

"Gold Four, this is Blue Leader," an unfamiliar voice said over the wireless. "Hold it together just a little longer; we'll be with you in ten seconds."

"They're human," Hotdog yelled out. "They're ours!"

-------------------------------------------------

"Helo practically burst with excitement as he listened to the chatter on the wireless. At least until Rutger radioed and asked for a status update.

"They're securing the skies above us," Helo reported. "There's actually a whole--"

"Quiet," Rutger interrupted. "This channel may not be secure. Besides, I already know all about what's going on, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir," Helo replied.

"I just want to know what your status is in getting the Raptors ready to fly us out of here."

"We're removing the armored paneling now," Helo said. The Raptors had all had extra armor plating added to protect the ships as they flew down into the atmosphere, vulnerable to an unknown number of cylon raiders. But the extra protection wasn't needed on the way back up, and the weight of the armor would reduce the Raptors' cargo capacity during their supply runs. While the marines fought their way to the weapons cache, the flight crews made certain they'd be able to ferry the cargo back up to the _Galactica_ as quickly as possible.

"How long?" Rutger asked.

"Fifteen minutes," Helo answered.

"Good. Team Alpha is advancing on the depot now, and the rest of us aren't far behind. Don't keep us waiting, Lieutenant."

"Of course not, sir," Helo said. _Can't screw up during my first mission as a pilot,_ he reminded himself. _Especially not when I've been put in command of the group. Sharon will kick my ass if I screw this up._

-------------------------------------------------

Starbuck was aching to get on the ground and out of her parachute harness by the time she was able to start making out individual marines on the ground below her. The flashes of light she'd seen from farther up now could clearly be seen as muzzle flashes from weapons. The crackle of small arms fire now drowned out the deafening thunder of Viper KEW cannons and their cylon counterparts in the skies far above. Colonial and cylon mortars crisscrossed below her, and Starbuck was about to land in the middle of it all.

_Never thought I'd get to try out being an Erinye,_ she thought with a smile, remembering the orbital paratroopers the Colonial military had dubbed 'Erinyes.' She consciously avoided dwelling on the extremely high mortality rate for that particular Special Forces unit.

"Ares, I'm only a few seconds from the ground," Starbuck said.

"I thought I heard a mayday," he answered. "We've secured the airfield and destroyed the raiders that were on the ground. Less than a full squadron got in the air."

"Our Vipers will take care of them," Starbuck said confidently, not mentioning the mysterious blue squadron that had arrived, seemingly out of nowhere. _Well, Tigh told me to expect the unexpected… He was right – that **was** unexpected._ "Think you can hang around until I get down there."

"How long?" Ares asked.

"A few seconds," Starbuck answered, pulling hard on her harness, trying to steer herself toward a group that she was sure Ares was leading.

"I guess you weren't kidding," Ares said, now looking up at her. Several marines near him moved aside to give Starbuck room to land.

"We've run into stiffer resistance than we expected," Ares explained as Starbuck hit the ground running, releasing her parachute and struggling to stop herself a pace in front of the other pilot. "We're all mustering here for a final push."

Starbuck looked around the small courtyard they were in, all of them moving against what they had determined was the command center, set next to a tower and a large storage facility. _The weapons cache,_ Starbuck knew. They'd reached their objective, and it appeared as if they hadn't taken any significant casualties yet.

"Rutger's group is only a few seconds behind us," Ares said. "We're going to move now."

"Not waiting for his unit first?" Starbuck asked, not liking that Ares seemed too willing to take chances. _This is still a fortified position – we could round a corner and run into anything._

"We're far behind schedule," Ares replied. "Resistance at the airfield was stiffer than we expected, and we needed to make sure we took out the raiders before they could get in the air and take out our air cover."

"Understood," Starbuck answered. "And your care is appreciated, since my team was your air cover. So if we're gonna go, let's go."

"Follow me," Ares said, his smile indicating he was having just far too much fun.

-------------------------------------------------

"Launch rescue ships," Adama grumbled, now turning from the DRADIS screen and giving his full attention to the ship's status screens. And get hazmat and damage control teams down to the port flight pod. Have them prioritize that and the sub-light engines."

"And all the fighters?" Tigh asked.

"Divert Silver Squadron planet-side to cover our landing party. The others should land, refuel, rearm, and be ready to launch on a moment's notice."

"Aye," Tigh muttered.

"What's the status of the ground teams?" Adama asked, turning to Gaeta.

"The ships have all landed, and teams are advancing on their targets."

"And Lieutenant Thrace?" he asked, fearing the worst, hoping for the best.

"She rendezvoused with Ares' team," Gaeta said with a knowing expression that made the admiral smile.

"Good," Adama said. "Good. Order the other ships to spread out; if any other basestars show up, I don't want them to catch multiple ships with a single nuke."

"Yes, Sir," Gaeta said.

"Almost done," the admiral muttered with a sigh.

-------------------------------------------------

A tingle ran down Starbuck's spine as she, Ares, and their group of marines entered the building that they'd identified as the cylon weapons cache. Inside, the structure resembled a massive warehouse, with a wide open area by the entrance holding scattered titanium crates – of varying sizes and none of them labeled – that were also stacked into dozens of rows leading away from them. Starbuck took all of this in as her eyes scanned every hiding place, every shadow, for the cylon centurions she was certain should have been there.

_No guards?_ she wondered in disbelief, certain she was missing something. _This is wrong. This is all wrong. Four squadrons of raiders on the surface, four basestars and the Resurrection Ship above, and there're virtually no ground troops in and around the command center and weapons cache? That makes no sense._

"Fan out," Ares ordered, already addressing the problem of not being able to identify any of the crates without searching them. "Teller, Hallon, take the radiation censors down each and every one of those aisles until we know where the nukes are."

"Yes, sir," Teller said.

"Any ideas?" Ares asked Starbuck.

"Assuming it's all weapons and ammunition – which I bet it is, since I can't imagine they have much reason to store food or medical supplies like this – I wouldn't expect them to stick nukes out here in the open."

"Me either," Ares admitted. "My money's on the area near the rear of the building, where it looked like there was roof access. That'd make it easier to load nukes directly into transports. It's not like they're small."

"Yeah," Starbuck agreed. The large doors on the roof weren't the only attribute that made the rear of the building the more likely storage area – it also had at least one sublevel that the Blackbird had been able to detect, the walls were steel-reinforced, meter-thick concrete, and there was a fairly advanced electronic support system wired through that section of the building.

"Skip all this stuff and move toward the back," Ares called out.

Starbuck looked down an aisle at Hallon, just in time to see two cylon centurions appear at the end of the aisle in front of him. "Get down," she yelled, diving for cover as the centurions both opened fire. She knew Hallon was almost certainly dead – there was no cover in the middle of the row where he'd been standing – but she hoped the others would be able to get clear.

"Starbuck," Ares shouted. "You okay?"

She couldn't even hear her own response, as several more guns opened up on them, the two centurions obviously having backup. She was about to stand up and move toward Ares when he gestured for her to get back down behind the crate she was using as cover. She heard a centurion lumbering across the concrete floor and looked back to Ares, amazed at the satisfied smile on his face. _He's crazy,_ Starbuck decided. _We're pinned down and he looks like he's never been so happy._

"Fun, isn't it?" Ares yelled.

"You're fracking nuts!" Starbuck returned, doubting he heard her over another salvo from the cylons. Then, as suddenly as it had all started, the gunfire stopped. Starbuck could hear the cries and moans of several wounded marines, but Ares, who had a better vantage point, was still signaling her to stay down. Several single shots rang out, each one ending one of the voices that had been contributing to the chorus of agony, and Starbuck decided that she'd had enough of hiding and waiting.

"Frak you!" Ares shouted at the cylons, springing to his feet just a half-second before Starbuck did. He leveled his assault rifle and unleashed a barrage of explosive rounds. His unexpected attack had thrown Starbuck momentarily off-balance, and by the time she'd made it to her feet, she was surrounded by several heaps of scrap metal, some of them still functional enough to struggle to rise to their mangled feet and keep trying to eliminate their targets.

"Umm, nice shooting," she said to Ares.

"We need back-up, now!" Ares screamed into his wireless headset. "More marines, and some medics."

"I knew something was wrong about this place," Starbuck muttered.

"Something still is," Ares commented, walking toward the rows of ammunition storage crates, counting off the members of his team who'd been killed.

_He's right, _Starbuck decided. _I got a bad feeling about this_. She couldn't explain it, but she knew in her gut that it was a bad idea to try to finish the operation. _A nose for trouble,_ she remembered hearing the Old Man call it. _But I don't like the idea of dropping this when our goal is in sight._

"Ares!" Major Rutger yelled as he entered the storage facility, ten more marines in tow. "Where are you?"

"He's down there," Starbuck answered, pointing down one of the aisles.

Rutger started to move in that direction, and then momentarily froze in his tracks when more gunfire erupted from where Ares had walked out of sight. The major recovered quickly, and was off like a shot, Starbuck one step behind, taking a moment to order the marines to secure the entrance and start treating the wounded soldiers.

"Slow-ass machines," Ares was grumbling, kicking at the still-smoking debris from two more centurions.

"Lucky for you," Starbuck said, noting that if Ares hadn't been a step quicker, he would have been a sitting duck in the narrow aisle.

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Ares bragged. "I'm just better than they are."

Starbuck realized that Ares was dropping to a knee and raising his assault rifle before she ever heard the two additional centurions that appeared at the end of the aisle. By the time she and Rutger had also fallen into a defensive crouch, Ares was merrily dispatching the two hulking machines, making them into carbon copies of the two bullet-riddled centurions lying in a heap a few feet away.

"See what I mean?" Ares asked with a grin as he stood up. "I'm better."

"We'd better get--"

"Get down!" Rutger yelled, tackling Starbuck to the floor. There was none of the gunfire she expected; instead, she managed to look up and saw Ares staring back toward the end of the aisle, his assault rifle hanging at his side, dangling from loose fingers.

"Shoot it!" Starbuck yelled, seeing a man standing at the end of the aisle, engaged in a staring match with Ares. "It's another cylon, Ares. Shoot it!"

The cylon stood completely motionless, his long, blonde, curly hair seeming to blow in a light breeze that Starbuck couldn't feel, its icy blue stare riveted on its three targets. Its hand rested on a holstered sidearm, but it appeared unwilling to make an aggressive move as long as it was outnumbered. _I haven't seen this model before,_ Starbuck realized, taking a good look so that she'd be able to draw a good portrait of the cylon later.

"Oh, frak." Ares' voice was little more than a whisper, but Starbuck heard it clearly enough. It was as if everything in the building had completely stopped, like she, Ares, Rutger, and the cylon were all that existed in the universe.

_And Ares isn't firing,_ she realized. Starbuck struggled to raise her own rifle, but Rutger pinned her arms down and at her sides. "Let go," Starbuck said, squirming.

"Stay still," Rutger said under his breath, as if he hoped that he and Starbuck – crouched out in the open in between two five-meter-high rows of ammunition crates – could escape notice.

"Oh, frak," Ares said again. The rifle finally slipped from his numb fingertips, clattering to the floor as the cylon looked on, still refraining from making an aggressive move of its own. Ares began to back away slowly, and then finally turned and ran.

"Ares!" Starbuck yelled.

She squirmed free of Rutger long enough to get a hold of her own rifle, and then almost blacked out when Rutger clubbed her over the head with his own sidearm. The marine got to his feet, grabbed Starbuck under her left shoulder with his left hand while keeping his rifle leveled at the cylon with his right, and dragged Starbuck back the way they'd come as the cylon continued to look on.

"I'm taking her out of here," Rutger announced plainly.

The cylon remained silent and still.

"And I expect you to be gone when we come back in here to get the supplies we came for."

"Is that right?" the cylon asked, appearing amused with Rutger's statement.

"We don't have to do this the hard way," Rutger said.

Through the fog in her head, Starbuck was reasonably certain of two things – Rutger thought she was out cold and wasn't hearing a word of this, and the tone in Rutger's voice made it clear that despite his words, he had absolutely no problems with doing things the hard way. _And I may be conscious, but I don't think I can even move my legs,_ she decided, _to say nothing of running for cover if these two start shooting at each other._

"Fine, we'll do this the easy way," the cylon relented. It slowly raised its hand from its holster and backed away slowly, allowing Rutger to sling his rifle over his shoulder and use both hands to drag Starbuck to safety.

"Get me some help here," Rutger yelled as soon as they'd cleared the rows of crates.

Starbuck started to struggle out of Rutger's grasp, and he let her pull away. "You hit me," she said as menacingly as she could manage. She touched her head gingerly, her hand coming away bloody.

"We were both on the floor," Rutger pointed out. "I couldn't imagine us getting the drop on him, but I knew you'd try. I figured discretion was the better part of valor in this instance."

Two marines came hustling up to them, and Starbuck immediately recognized them as crewmen from the Myrmidon. "Hey, Jenkins," she said as one of them opened a med-kit.

"Hello, Lieutenant," he said, now all business, the happy-go-lucky systems analyst he'd once been now replaced by an inexperienced infantry paramedic.

"Say again?" Rutger was screaming into his headset. "Frak."

"What is it?" Starbuck asked.

"Ares ran back to the _Chimera_ and took off," Rutger reported.

"What?"

"He ran away," Rutger clarified.

"That doesn't sound like him," Starbuck responded.

Rutger gave a noncommittal grunt in reply and started shouting out orders to his men. Minutes later, he was crouched back at Starbuck's side. "Lieutenant, the planet's been secured."

"Completely?" Starbuck asked, surprised that the battle had ended so quickly.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "We're loading up Helo's Raptor first, and we'll send you up with him. The commander wants to start your debriefing a.s.a.p."

"He's an admiral now," Starbuck said. _I probably have a concussion, but I still know the Old Man isn't a commander anymore._

"I wasn't talking about Admiral Adama," Rutger answered, suddenly letting slip a thin, uncharacteristic smile. "It's the commander of the _Pegasus_ – he'll be handling your debriefing."

_To be continued……………………………_


	13. …At the Cost of the Present

Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**XIII – …At the Cost of the Present**

"Wait here. The commander will be with you in a minute," the yeoman said, leaving Starbuck standing outside the commander's quarters. She watched as unknown faces marched back and forth through the polished halls. _How frakking long has it been since I was on a battlestar other than _Galactica she wondered, avoiding the thought that this was something she never expected to do again. She wasn't waiting long before the door opened; Kara's mouth fell open in disbelief. "Frak me…" she muttered, unable to find any other words.

"Excuse me?"

"Lee!" she screamed, leaping into her old friend's arms, clasping her hands together behind his neck and wrapping her legs around his waist, giggling maniacally as he struggled to stay on his feet. "You're alive," she said, her words mostly lost as she pressed her face against his shoulder. "How are you alive?"

"Kara, you're making a scene," Lee replied, grinning broadly.

Kara moved her head from Lee's shoulder and looked at her friend's face; he seemed uncomfortably aware of the attention they were receiving from the crewmen.

"Umm… yeah," she said, slowly placing her feet back on the floor. Once she was out of his arms, Kara slapped him. Hard. "That's for making me think you were dead," she told him, doing her best to stare down the onlookers but knowing the absurd smile still on her face was likely rendering her attempt pointless.

"It's good to see you again, too," Lee said, turning and walking down the hall, momentarily looking back at Kara, as if he expected her to follow.

"I'm supposed to report to the commander for debriefing," Kara explained, shifting her feet anxiously, hoping Lee wouldn't notice how tempted she was to blow off her meeting. "Can we catch up later?"

"We'll catch up now," Lee said with a laugh. Then, in a tone Kara thought eerily reminiscent of Lee's father, he added, "Walk with me."

"But I'm supposed to…" Kara's voice cracked when she noticed the insignia on Lee's collar. "If this is some kind of joke, you better hope the commander doesn't catch you wearing those."

"It's not a joke," Lee assured her. "Walk with me, Captain."

"You know, it figures," Kara said as soon as she fell into step beside Lee.

"What's that?"

"Well, I finally make captain, and you steal my thunder by moving up three grades to commander. How the frak does that happen?"

"Necessity," Lee answered with a shrug.

"Well, necessity and your daddy being the admiral," Kara joked.

"Sure, play the nepotism card if that's what it takes to console your bruised ego."

"Seriously, though – what happened out here, Lee?"

"_Pegasus_ was under the command of Admiral Caine," Lee explained. "Part of that cylon task force we just hit had been slowly trailing _Galactica_, and Caine had been tracking the cylons. In fact, I'll bet one time we missed running into each other by a matter of hours. But Caine got ahead of them -- it was the Resurrection Ship and two basestars then – and hit the cylons, knowing the odds were against her. She destroyed one basestar and crippled another, but the Resurrection Ship got away, and most of the bridge crew – Caine and her XO included – were killed in the battle. Seems the Resurrection Ship and the crippled basestar made it to LV-426, where they rendezvoused with the three basestars there. That's about the time we showed up."

"At the _Pegasus_?" Kara asked.

"Yeah. The story Racetrack and the admiral told was almost entirely true. Our Raptor was out there, and we detected all of the signals from the battle. We responded and found _Pegasus_, which was adrift in space, crippled, its bridge shattered. We went aboard and I organized the remaining officers in C.I.C. while Major Garner took command and tried to get the engines up and running. The cylons showed up before we were ready, and we threw everything we had at them, knowing we weren't going to last long in a fight. Garner somehow got the FTL engines online before we were destroyed, but he died doing it. That basically left me."

"And now what?" Kara asked. "Tigh taking over?"

"No, _Pegasus_ is mine," Lee answered, sounding strangely overwhelmed by the words. "What's left of the officers asked the Admiral to keep me here to take command. He agreed."

"Commander Adama," Kara said with a smile. "Has a familiar ring to it."

"Stop," Lee snapped.

"Fine," Kara relented. "But seriously, why the frak didn't you let me know you were still alive?"

"We had security concerns," Lee explained. "We have to assume there are still cylon agents in the fleet. If the cylons knew that _Galactica_ and _Pegasus_ were in contact--"

"We never would have been able to pull this off," Kara finished for him. "But you realize I'm not a cylon, right?"

"I know," Lee assured her. "And we didn't want to keep it from you – my father, especially – but we decided we had no choice."

"Is that supposed to mean you actually expected me to cry, and you didn't think I could fake it if I knew you were actually alive?" Kara teased.

"No, it's because I was afraid you'd be stupid enough to think people would expect you to cry for me," Lee shot back without missing a beat. "Then you'd turn on the water works, and people would have known you were faking the whole thing and that I must actually be alive somewhere."

"Sure, laugh it up," Kara said, lightly punching Lee's shoulder.

"Striking a superior officer isn't the best way to get ahead in life," Lee chided.

"So Tigh's told me," she countered.

"Anyway, your debriefing," Lee said. "I expect a report by 0800."

"A report?" Starbuck complained. "Are you kidding?"

"Find Lieutenant Collins," Lee added. "He's the acting CAG. Have him check your spelling."

"Smart ass."

"And while you're talking with Collins, I want you to reorganize the pilot assignments," Lee said. "Transfer a few over to _Galactica_ to make sure it has two full squadrons. The rest will stay here; I think we should have almost three full squadrons on _Pegasus_ when you're done."

"Three squadrons?" Starbuck asked.

"With Mark VII's."

"Right… the Viper fabrication facilities," Starbuck said, smacking herself in the forehead for having forgotten about the capabilities of a Mercury-class battlestar. "We planning on building some for _Galactica_, too?"

"As soon as we can."

"Cool."

"And I was talking with the admiral," Lee continued. "We're officially combining our fighters into a single air group, and you're going to be the CAG."

"The CAG for two battlestars?" Starbuck asked incredulously.

"It's only five squadrons," Lee pointed out. "That's not much more than a single battlestar at full strength. Once we get some more Vipers – and some pilots to fly them – we'll see about promoting someone else, and you'll get transferred to either _Pegasus_ or _Galactica_. Until then, you'll rotate between the two ships."

"So I'll be under your command?"

"You won't be alone," Lee said. "Doc Cottle's coming over, too. We have a lot of people who've been muddling through with some serious injuries for a few weeks now; the _Pegasus's_ medical staff is beyond overworked, and it's time we give them some help."

"So me and the Doc?"

"And Dee," Lee added. He spoke the name as if she was an afterthought, but Kara knew better. She'd heard the rumors.

"And Dee," she repeated. "I see."

"_Pegasus_ is handling the cargo flights from the surface, and Dee knows the procedures and all of _Galactica's_ pilots," Lee said. "I needed a communications officer, and she's the obvious choice."

"Of course," Starbuck said, stopping in the middle of the hall. She didn't know what pissed her off more – that Lee was lying to her face, making it seem as if he had no personal investment in Dee's transfer, or that he thought she was stupid enough not to realize the truth.

Lee stopped and stared at her, though Kara pointedly ignored everything he was screaming at her through familiar body language.

"Is that all, Sir?" she asked, already looking forward to borrowing a Mark VII and pushing it to its limits in order to burn off her anger.

"It is," Lee snapped, instantly matching her shifting moods. "Make sure I get my report."

"Of course, Commander."

-------------------------------------------------

"Are you still connected to the other cylons?" Admiral Adama asked, staring into the eyes of his cylon prisoner, steeling himself to say what he needed to without letting on how much he was disgusted by some of the threats he was about to make. _Don't let her guess that you're bluffing,_ he told himself.

As he looked at her, he couldn't help but be reminded of his ex-wife after she gave birth to Lee and Zak. Sharon was clearly exhausted, but there was something victorious, something powerful, in her eyes. Even through her pain and fatigue, she was aware of the miracle she had performed earlier that day. Despite his complicated, conflicted emotions regarding the cylon, in that moment Adama couldn't help but be awed by her.

"I'm not connected to them in the way you mean," Sharon answered evasively. Adama was certain she knew exactly what he meant, and that she could have given a straight answer if she – _no, **it**_, he reminded himself, chasing away his awe and focusing on the task at hand – had wanted to. He was not surprised that it didn't seem willing to speak plainly.

"I destroyed the Resurrection Ship," Adama said. "The cylons can't be downloaded into new bodies this far from the Colonies anymore. Now when they die, they stay dead."

"I think they know that," Sharon answered. Adama searched for any kind of reaction, any hint of joy, relief, anger or sadness. But there was nothing.

"I have a completely disabled basestar in front of me," Adama announced, reasonably certain that Sharon already knew that much, too. "I also have a weapons depot below. I have two battlestars now, and I just restocked both ships' nuclear and conventional weapons arsenals. I've started arming the civilian ships and training their crews to engage cylon raiders and repel boarding parties. I have all the weapons, ammunition, and fuel I need to keep fighting off your friends for the next couple of years. You make sure they know that."

"They're not my friends," Sharon objected. "And it's not like I can just--"

"Make sure," Adama said in his soothing, grandfatherly tone that brooked no argument and somehow conveyed a threat of violence should he be defied. "All I want is for our people to be left alone. I don't want to see any more cylon raiders. I don't want to see any more basestars. I want the cylon sleeper agents gone. I want the cylons to let us go."

"Even if I could deliver your message, they're not--"

"Yes, they will," Adama said with a confident nod. "The firepower at my disposal is comparable to a full Colonial carrier group. I have all the weapons I need to wage a war, to destroy wave after wave of cylons. And even with all that, I only need a single bullet to kill you."

"What?"

"The next time I see a cylon, I'm going to have the nearest marine put a bullet in your skull," Adama assured her. "And then they'll use a second bullet on your abomination child."

"You wouldn't." Sharon almost succeeded in looking sure of herself, but Adama caught a flicker of doubt. And that was all he needed.

"It's not up to me," he countered. "And it's not up to you. It's up to the cylons. If they want you and your child safe, they'll let us go. Otherwise, the first cylon to die will be you. And then your child and every single frakking cylon attacker will follow. That's the deal. They let us go, and you and your child will be safe. Unless they plan on coming out here in force, with no fewer than five or six basestars, they have no other tactical alternative."

Sharon remained silent, only nodding weakly.

The admiral turned on his heel and walked out, satisfied that for the first time since the cylon attack on the Colonies, the matter of security might no longer be their pressing problem. _So now what?_

-------------------------------------------------

"Admiral," Gaeta called out as soon as the DRADIS screen updated after the FTL jump. "I'm not picking up anything; they're not here, either."

"What?" Adama said, his eyes immediately locking onto the tactical screens to see for himself. Gaeta was right – there were no contacts anywhere; the fleet was gone.

"Verify our position" Tigh ordered.

"It'll take some time," Gaeta explained. "Navigating in this soup--"

"Just get it done," Tigh snapped.

"Are we picking up any signals?" Adama asked.

"No, Admiral," Specialist Annar – Dualla's replacement – reported. "There's nothing but all the background noise."

"There's no debris," Tigh said under his breath.

Adama nodded, appreciating the fact that there was at least that much good news. He had thought it a stroke of genius to hide the fleet in this massive nebula, knowing it would be next to impossible for the cylons to find the ships unless they knew where in the nebula the human ships were. But the fleet wasn't where the Galactica had left it, and it also wasn't at the emergency jump coordinates. _Having trouble finding our own ships after the attack was never part of the plan… or anything we accounted for in our contingencies._

Several minutes passed in tense silence. Gaeta frantically ran astrogation computations based on the few markers he could find in the nebula, hoping that he had correctly identified the young stars within range of their sensors, as everyone else in C.I.C. strained to see something – anything – on the DRADIS screen.

"We're in the right place," Gaeta finally said. "They're just not here, either, Sir."

"Get a signal back to _Pegasus_," Adama told Tigh. "Tell them what's going on, and get our Raptors back here. "We have to send out ships to find our people."

-------------------------------------------------

"Captain," Major Rutger said, standing at attention, snapping Starbuck a salute as he stood in the doorway of the CAG's office.

"What do you need?" she asked, searching for the perfect way to phrase her report to explain how she'd managed to get herself shot down.

"I came to talk about Ares," the marine answered.

"And?" Starbuck responded, now looking up, abandoning her report for the time being.

"And he won't be coming back," Rutger said.

"Have you spoken with him?"

"No," Rutger admitted.

"Then how do you know he won't be back?"

"I know him, Captain. He was always a coward at heart, anyway, and he didn't expect what he found on the surface."

"And what did he find?" Starbuck asked, remembering Ares' reaction when he held the unknown cylon at gunpoint.

"Let's just say that wasn't an unfamiliar face," Rutger replied evasively. "I'm not certain it's something he'd like me talking about."

"Doesn't seem he's here to object."

"All the same," Rutger said, "I just thought you should know that he won't be back. I know you have CAP schedules to figure out."

"And why didn't _you_ fire?" Starbuck asked, remembering Rutger backing down in the face of the lone cylon.

"Excuse me?" Rutger asked, looking shocked that the question was even being asked.

"Why didn't you fire on that cylon?"

"It seemed willing to let us leave," Rutger explained. "In case you forgot, we were standing in between two tall rows of stacked ammunition crates. Both of us – you and me. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to duck for cover. I saw no reason to start shooting if it was possible to get out alive."

"You seriously expect me to believe that?" Starbuck asked, noticing Rutger moving toward the door.

"I don't care what you believe," Rutger replied angrily. "I'm a marine, not a pilot – I don't answer to you, and I don't know that there's anything more to say. I have dozens of marines to schedule for cargo runs – I have to go."

"Of course," Starbuck said. Once Rutger had gone, she couldn't help but consider the possibilities. _So Ares recognized that cylon,_ she thought. _And he was in Special Forces before the war. Who'd that cylon been when Ares knew him? Where did Ares meet him? And does it have anything to do with the attack?_ She briefly considered the possibility that maybe Ares knew someone who'd been responsible for the cylons' success in circumventing the Command Navigation Program, that maybe he felt responsible for everything that had happened.

_No,_ she decided, disregarding that possibility. _If there was someone stupid enough to help the cylons like that, they would have killed him. They wouldn't have left him alive to be found and interrogated._

-------------------------------------------------

"You needed to see me, Commander?" Dee asked as soon as Lee opened his door.

"Yes, come on in," he said.

Dee walked in, an eager look on her face, and closed the door behind her. "I was hoping I'd get to see you tonight," she purred, wrapping her arms around his neck, gently kissing his earlobe.

"You're being transferred back to _Galactica_," Lee blurted out. Dee drew back and stared at him, looking as if he'd slapped her in the face. "New orders just came through," he explained.

"I'm being transferred?" she asked in disbelief. "I just got here. I haven't even unpacked yet."

"It's only temporary," Lee assured her.

"Sure it is."

"Not that I need to explain your orders, but there's an emergency situation," Lee snapped, his voice holding a sharp edge that he found he was quite happy to hear. "This isn't about us."

"Okay," Dee relented immediately.

"The fleet's missing," Lee explained, instantly willing to share the situation once Dualla had backed down. He tried not to wonder too much about what that fact said about him. "The admiral is afraid that they may have been attacked, that maybe some of the ships escaped and are hiding. You're on a first-name basis with every ship's communications officers; the admiral wants you on the wireless to talk to anyone we might find, to make sure they know they're not being tricked into revealing their location."

"And to make sure of the same thing for us."

"Yes," Lee admitted. "No one on _Pegasus_ knows about this, yet, so don't go spreading it around."

"Of course not," Dee responded.

"_Pegasus_ is going to stay here and finish loading weapons and cargo, and then we'll rendezvous with _Galactica_."

"And everything's okay with us?" Dee asked.

"Of course," Lee assured her. "I asked the admiral to send you back when he's done with you, and he agreed."

"And what did you tell him?" Dee asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Didn't he wonder why you were so eager to have me over here?" Dee teased, leaning in against Lee and going back to work on his ear.

"He offered me some of his staff, since _Pegasus's_ crew lost so many people during Cain's attack," Lee explained. "I chose you and Starbuck, and the admiral didn't question that in any way. I'm a commander now – having my dad stop questioning my every decision is one of the perks."

"Along with the nice big room to yourself," Dee added.

"Yes, there _is_ that, too," Lee admitted, lifting Dee in his arms and carrying her over to his bed.

_To be continued……………………………_


	14. Reunions & Schisms

Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

-------------------------------------------------

**XIV – Reunions & Schisms**

"So tell me, which part of the prophecy am I living right now?" Baltar asked Six, seething at the amused look on her face as he glared at her through the bars of his cell.

"The greatest prophecies always involve hardship, Gaius," Six replied. "You should know that by now."

"So I'm being purified by my suffering, is that it?" Baltar shot back sarcastically.

"Perhaps," Six answered with a shrug, appearing to delight at Baltar's predicament.

"I see," Baltar said, his fury suddenly snuffed out like a candle in the wind as he stood, nodding, pacing thoughtfully in his cell.

"What do you see?" Six asked.

"Oh, nothing," Baltar answered with a dismissive wave, knowing that would serve to irritate his would-be tormenter.

"Tell me, Gaius," Six snapped.

"Very well," Baltar sighed with an indulgent smile, absolutely overjoyed at her increasingly venomous stare. "You never saw this coming, did you?" he asked.

"Excuse me?"

"You. Never. Saw. This. Coming," Baltar repeated slowly. "Zarek's coup wasn't supposed to happen – it wasn't something you counted on."

"You've been complaining for awhile now that you were afraid of the Condemned Man usurping your power," Six pointed out.

"Ah, but you expressed the opinion that Zarek might not be the Condemned Man, that I could also fit the prophecy," Baltar reminded her. "Of course, you also tried to hedge your bets by implying that even if Zarek _were_ the Condemned Man, that the Sacred Scrolls never fully explained how long he would hold power."

"They don't, Gaius."

"Yes, but through it all, I was so panicked by Roslin's unexpectedly sudden death and my overwhelming new responsibilities that I never stopped to think things through. Well, not until I had an abundance of free time to do nothing but think," Baltar commented, glancing around at his surroundings.

"And what is it you've thought through?" Six asked, trying – but failing – to be as condescending as Baltar was being.

"For all your preaching, for all your devout ramblings, for all your assurances that all would work out in the end, you never had a clue what you were doing or how things would end up," Baltar said. Even he could hear the smarmy, contemptuous tone in his voice. And he liked it.

"You'd best watch your tone, Gaius," Six warned. "It sounds like you're challenging the will of God again. I thought we were past that."

"It occurs to me that everything humanity has done has been largely because of those damned prophecies Pythia wrote down," Baltar added. "The devout follow the ambiguously worded warnings of a woman who lived thousands of years ago because it gives them comfort to feel there's a benevolent force for good watching over them; those with less faith follow the devout because it appears that maybe they have a plan for dealing with the end of the world. And I listened to you because I looked around and saw these prophecies playing out before my very eyes, never realizing that there was a damned good reason it all happened the way it did."

"Do you forget your success at the cylon tylium mine?" Six asked. "It was God who guided your hand to the correct target on the tactical photos. And how about my revelation to you that our child would be born and raised in the very place where Sharon Valerii is being held? Do you chalk that up to coincidence?"

"I chalk that up to your being wrong," Baltar countered. "First of all – not our child. The baby is, in fact, Helo's and Sharon's. Second, the child was _not_ born in Sharon's holding cell – she was born in sick bay because of last minute complications in Sharon's pregnancy."

"This is more of your blasphemy."

"This is me paying attention," Baltar countered. "What if, when we were back on Caprica, you revealed that you believed in a god that claimed the sun wouldn't rise the next morning? Would it be blasphemy for me to say the following day that your god was wrong because it was, in fact a bright, sunny day? Of course not," Baltar snapped, answering his own question. "And the reason is because it's not blasphemy when I point out that one of your hare-brained prophecies is demonstrably wrong."

"With all we've been through, with all I've shown you, I find it inconceivable that you still lack faith in God," Six replied venomously. "You've seen miracles, Gaius. I've explained your chosen place in God's plans. And you throw it in my face like it's something to be despised."

"Not despised," Baltar countered. "Simply disregarded. Your so-called god has done nothing except first take credit for me choosing the right blur on an out-of-focus tactical photo, and then magnanimously providing me with a reprieve after sending a copy of you in here with falsified evidence to frame me for facilitating the cylons' success in their attack. I've seen con-men on the streets of Delta City who can conceive of a more convincing racket."

Six's expression was absolutely murderous, and Baltar found himself thankful that, as far as he knew, she was not capable of launching fireballs from her eyes. "You'll regret everything you've said here," she assured him.

"Perhaps," Baltar said with a contented sigh. "But the more I think on this, the more it occurs to me that your cylon god is nothing more or less than the humans' gods. He's a figment of your imagination – just as you're likely a figment of my imagination – designed to bring comfort and security in a big, scary universe in which you find yourselves all alone."

"You'll regret this all," Six told him again. Then she walked from the brig without another word, finally giving Baltar something he'd wanted ever since Roslin's death – absolute silence.

-------------------------------------------------

"All systems in the green," Checklist said from behind Racetrack.

"Okay," Racetrack answered with an amused smile. Checklist was just a kid – recruited from the _Bright Horizon_ only a week before the assault on LV-426 – and his youth and inexperience earned him the callsign "Checklist," for his obsessive habit of going through the checklists at the back of the training manuals at all times during a flight. "You really don't have to tell me that all systems are green," Racetrack told him, not for the first time. "If there were any problems, we'd know right away."

"Are you sure?" Checklist asked.

"Someday you'll see," Racetrack assured him. "There are all kinds of alarms and flashing red lights to signal depressurization, power failure, jumping into something solid, jumping in too close to a star, some kind of explosion in the engines--"

"Okay, I get it," Checklist interrupted, looking paler than he had before the jump.

"Good," Racetrack laughed. "But none of that is very likely."

"So they say," Checklist grumbled. "Anyway, looks like we jumped to the right coordinates."

"Confirmed," Racetrack replied, looking over her own readouts. She strained to see through the dust and gases around the Raptor, hoping that maybe her eyes would show her something the electronic instruments couldn't see through the murk. "Though that's strange," she commented, certain that she was reading something large at the edge of their long-range sensors.

"What is it?"

"Looks like a planet," Racetrack said. "And it's smaller than it should be."

"What do you mean?"

"Usually all you'll find in a nebula are stars, brown dwarfs, gas giants, and asteroids" Racetrack explained, finding that she enjoyed being a teacher as well as a pilot. "Over the course of millions of years, the solid matter – asteroids and dust, mostly – will start to come together to form terrestrial planets that might become habitable a few hundred million years from now."

"And that planet?" Checklist asked.

"Not what I'd expect," Racetrack told him. As they got closer to the contact, Racetrack could see for certain that it was definitely a planet. "It's about the same size as Caprica," she added.

"I'm reading an atmosphere," Checklist said. "Spectrometer says it's mostly nitrogen, with about 25-percent oxygen and some other trace gases. And a lot of water vapor."

"Breathable," Racetrack said. She increased speed, and as they got closer she could make out clouds, large landmasses, and what might be vegetation. "Oh, gods…"

"Contact!" Checklist yelped. "Bearing 341-Mark-12."

"What is it?" Racetrack asked, using her maneuvering thrusters to turn the Raptor around before shutting down all active systems, hoping to elude the unidentified contact, just in case it was a cylon ship. _A cylon base? In the middle of a nebula?_ she wondered. _Well, that would explain why we've never been able to figure out where they ended up after the first war._ "What is it?" she repeated.

"Gimme a sec," Checklist snapped, clearly flustered under pressure.

Racetrack struggled to hold her tongue, reminding herself that the boy behind her was likely little more than sixteen years old, though he'd claimed to be eighteen, and there were no records to prove otherwise. _And when you're as good at computer work as he is, it's not like anyone's gonna go out of his way to prove the kid's lying about his age._

"It's one of our ships," Checklist finally said.

"Are you sure?"

"Definitely," Checklist answered. "I'm picking up chatter now – there're a bunch of our ships out there. I'm even reading shuttles going down to the planet's surface. It looks like it's habitable."

"Okay, figure jump coordinates," Racetrack ordered. "We're getting out of here."

"But they're our ships," Checklist protested.

"Our orders are clear," Racetrack reminded him. "If we find anything, we don't make contact or jump to any conclusions about the situation. We go back, report in, and help the _Galactica_ find our ships so we can come back in force."

"Right," Checklist said.

"So let's just get back. The admiral will take care of the rest."

-------------------------------------------------

"You've come to a decision," the old man said, as usual arriving unexpectedly, coming to stand at Laura Roslin's side.

"You're the doctor I met on the space station," she said, ignoring his own statement.

"Yes."

"Doctor Hobber."

"Yes."

"You're the one who brought me here?"

"I am."

Laura sighed heavily, trying to come to peace with the thoughts that had been plaguing her ever since her memory had begun returning. "How did we get here?"

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose not," she admitted, "but I'd like to know we can leave if we decide to." A rumbling groan echoed through the trees, and Roslin smiled, recognizing the satisfied grunt of one of the huge animals below having rounded up a wayward cub. She felt troubled every time she found herself feeling comfortable with the increasing familiarity of the planet, and every passing day made it more difficult to avoid that train of thought.

"Would you like to leave?"

"No," Roslin said, admitting the truth of the matter. _The reason I'm so troubled by my happiness here is that it seems like it's all I've ever wanted, and I know it can't last._ She sighed sadly. "But I suppose what I want isn't really important. I need to go back… I need to go back to my people."

"Why would you do that?"

"I'm going to fix our mistakes. I'm going to remind my people of what we are, what we stand for… why we deserve to survive."

"It would mean taking your people back home. You'd have to make war, to fight to the death. Yours or the cylons'."

"I know," she said. "The cylons won't let us go," she added, once more feeling the truth in her heart. A brief memory – almost an emotion, an impression, more than an actual, visual memory – flashed through her mind. _The memory of the moment when I found out all was lost…_

"No, they won't let you go," Hobber agreed.

"And they'll eventually find this place," she said. "The cylons will punish the innocent. All because of our mistakes."

"Yes."

"I need to go back," the woman said again. Another memory – a large ship, heavily armored, battle-scarred, an impression of a close friend who was waiting for her. _The Galactica,_ she realized. _And Bill._

"Are you certain this is what you want?"

"Yes. I have to save my people."

"And the parvulai?"

"Yes." The woman felt strong, stronger than she could remember ever feeling. "By helping my people, I'll also repay the parvulai."

"Perhaps… if you succeed in what you're planning," the old man said. "Do you actually think this will work?"

"Take me back," she said, her voice holding the hard edge of command that she had learned as her people's president. "Now."

-------------------------------------------------

"They're not answering our hails," Dee reported, surprised that not a single one of the ships had responded to the _Galactica's_ signal.

"Open a Priority Channel to Colonial One," Adama ordered. "Get me the President."

It was several moments before a young man named Deacon Connor came on the wireless and acknowledged Dualla's signal and transferred her to the President. "He's on," Dee said, putting the line straight through to the admiral's station.

"Mr. President," Adama said, cradling the phone in his hand.

"Yes Admiral?" Tom Zarek's voice asked from the other end of the line.

"What are you playing at?" Adama asked immediately, not missing a beat.

"I don't know what you mean?" Zarek asked in reply, smiling to Deaq and his other staff without giving away his disappointment that Admiral Adama had not even hinted at surprise.

"Where's President Baltar?" Adama demanded.

"Doctor Baltar has been removed from office," Zarek explained. He indulged in a moment to revel in the worshipful gazes his sycophants directed toward him before he continued. "The will of the people demanded a change in leadership."

"And what people were those?" Adama asked, gesturing toward Tigh to pick up another receiver and listen in. It only took a few seconds for Tigh's face to go several shades of white, and then immediately flush red with fury.

"The civilians of the fleet became tired of having their security compromised," Zarek explained. "It was bad enough when the doctor allowed his scientific research to suffer as he played at being president, but allowing you to abandon the fleet while you went gallivanting off into battle was completely unacceptable."

"You're making a mistake," Adama said evenly, making certain his tone was as non-threatening as possible. He counted on his reputation to convey all the menace he needed.

"Quite the opposite," Zarek countered. "Once Baltar had been removed, I ordered the fleet to jump farther into the nebula. We arrived here, orbiting a habitable planet. The gods obviously favor my ascension to power."

"The gods don't command the fleet's military resources," Adama responded, "and I'm not going to follow the orders of a man who just committed high treason by carrying out a coup."

"May I remind you, Admiral, that the military is subject to the commands of the civilian government," Zarek said happily. _This is what it all comes down to,_ he knew. _Adama can oppose me for a brief time if he wants, but he'll have to declare martial law and forcibly remove me from Colonial One to do it. The people will never stand for it – they stood up to the military once; they'll do it again._

"The military is subject to the commands of the _legitimate_ civilian government," Adama countered. "The Articles of Colonization make my responsibilities quite clear; but by usurping President Baltar's power without any legal authority to do so, it's my opinion that you've acted in defiance of the Articles."

"On the contrary, the Quorum enacted Article 26," Zarek said, deciding to play his trump card. "A two-thirds majority of the Quorum deemed Baltar unfit to serve – in essence, he was declared incapacitated by his immense responsibilities – and a member of the Quorum was chosen to take his place until an election is held to install a permanent President. The emergency election has already been scheduled for two weeks from now, Admiral."

"I see," Adama said. _Two weeks. Quick enough to satisfy any opposition that Zarek isn't planning this for the long haul, but too fast for anyone else to muster a formidable campaign to threaten him. He's been planning this for months._ He looked at Tigh, gestured toward the tactical screens, issuing a series of orders that he knew his XO would understand without a single word being spoken.

"Good," Zarek said. "As you've probably already noticed, we've been shuttling personnel and supplies down to the surface of the planet below. It's our intention to establish a permanent colony."

"You're out of your mind," Adama said. "You'd halt our flight from the cylons and put our defenseless people on the surface of an unfortified planet?"

"The decision has been made, Admiral," Zarek said. "As I explained, everything that's transpired in your absence has been perfectly legal. You will prepare your Raptors and immediately send them to the civilian ships to support our efforts in establishing our colony."

"I will not," Adama said.

"Excuse me?" Zarek said. He looked at the men seated around him, immediately hoping that the same flicker of doubt he saw on their faces was not also on his own.

"If you insist on this folly, you can do so without one iota of assistance from my people," Adama said.

"You have your orders," Zarek reminded the admiral. "Unless you plan on declaring martial law and attempting some sort of military coup, you have no choice but to comply."

"I disagree," the admiral said. "If the civilian population wishes to follow you, they can do so without the comfort and security of military support. The last time there was a disagreement between the military and civilian leadership, the civilian population was able to exert its will by denying the military the resources it needed. Now it seems the tables have been turned; and if the civilian government expects military support, it's going to start reconsidering some of its decisions."

"That's not the way this is going to go," Zarek shot back, stifling his anxiety as he noticed Saffiya Sanne and Marshall Bagot trading whispers at the opposite end of the table. "Your ship still needs supplies and civilian support, Admiral. We have a planet to support us, and the civilian manpower to start harvesting the resources below. My opinion is unchanged – your only reasonable option is to comply. Otherwise, like I said, you're looking at attempting a military coup. You may have the _Myrmidon_ and _Aether_ now, but you're still far short of having the military resources to launch some sort of military takeover."

"Really?" Adama asked. "You really think so?" Out of the corner of his eye, he watched a new blip appear on the DRADIS screen. _I wish I could be over there to see the look on his face._

"Mr. President," Colonial One's captain shouted out from the flight deck. "We have a new contact – a capital ship."

"What?" Zarek asked over the intercom. "Are we under attack?"

"No sir," the captain replied. "I mean… Oh gods…"

"What is it?" Deaq yelled.

"It's another battlestar," the captain explained, barely able to speak without stumbling over his words. "It's the _Pegasus_."

_Fin_

**Author's Endnote:** This was the final chapter of _Adrift in the Acheron_. The sequel (and final story in the trilogy) will be entitled _Breaking the Cycle_. I'll probably start posting in a few weeks, and will do my damnedest to keep posting maybe once per week. At the risk of offending anyone by inadvertently leaving them out, I'd like to thank everyone for their comments, but also specifically **Evilclone**, **ozma914**, **darkfinder**, **Silwyna**, **JennySDrebel**, and **ammonite** for frequent comments/criticisms. Such feedback is greatly valued.


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